John on Solid Ground
by Old Ping Hai
Summary: AU. John Watson is a former army doctor recently returned from Afghanistan — injured, depressed and bored to tears with medical practice in civilian life. But he has no idea what he's getting into when he interviews for the position of staff doctor on the next expedition to Mount Everest led by world-famous mountaineer Sherlock Holmes. Unabashed Johnlock — almost no angst here!
1. Bored!

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story in a straight line, and to the best Britpicker in the world, johnsarmylady. No way I could have done this without you guys.

I can't believe for a minute that either the ACD estate or the BBC is worried that I think I own Sherlock, but apparently it is a tradition to say this: I don't own Sherlock.

* * *

_Tuesday, 15:30_

"John!" The name floated through the air somewhere behind Dr. John Watson as he cut through Russell Square on his way home from work to his cheap bedsit.

But people with incredibly common monikers rarely respond to unfamiliar voices calling their names. John kept walking, his cane and limp giving him an awkward gait, but not impeding his speed.

"John Watson!"

John stopped and turned around. While he never assumed people calling 'John' might be hailing him, people specifying 'John Watson' surely must be.

"Mike? Mike Stamford!" John said.

The short, overweight man in glasses puffed up to him. "I'm surprised you recognized me. I've gained quite a bit of weight since our med school days." Mike patted his protruding stomach ruefully.

"It's good to see you again, Mike," said John, smiling genuinely and easily side-stepping the land mine of weight issues.

"You, too, John. But I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" Mike wondered.

John shrugged and gestured vaguely with his cane. "I got shot."

Mike looked nonplussed but said, "I'm done teaching classes for the day. Do you have time to grab a coffee and do some catching up?"

"Sure, my shift at the clinic where I work just ended, and I have the next two days off besides."

"Great! There's a nice coffee shop right down the street. We can talk there."

**~~~/~~~**

Mike insisted on treating John to coffee. Drinks in hand, Mike and John wended their way to a quiet table near the back of the shop.

"What are you doing now, Mike?" John asked curiously.

"Well, most of the year I teach classes at Barts. To bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." Mike made a wry face, apparently only half-joking.

John laughed. "I hear that."

"And you, John? You're not in the army anymore?"

"Honourably discharged on medical grounds after I was shot. Came back here, got a job as a GP at a clinic. But I am so bloody bored. Nothing but runny noses and hemorrhoids. It's quite a letdown after being a front-line trauma surgeon…and I can barely afford to live in London now, even with my army pension," John added dispiritedly.

Mike looked at him thoughtfully. "I might have a suggestion there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I know someone who needs a doctor for his next commercial climbing expedition to Mount Everest."

John burst out laughing. "Even if I were the world's leading expert on mountain climbing — which I'm not — me, on Mount Everest with this gammy leg?"

"Believe it or not, that won't be a problem. This guy always keeps his expedition doctor in base camp, which is at only 17,000 feet."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, is that all?"

"No, really; it's not a big deal, John. The way to the base camp is nothing more than a strenuous hike. No climbing involved. And everyone on the hike carries trekking poles or walking sticks. You wouldn't look out of place at all."

John's brow furrowed. "And you know this, how?"

"Because during the part of the year when I don't teach at Barts, I'm the expedition doctor for a rival commercial group," Mike explained.

John sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised. "I'm impressed!"

Mike shrugged. "Like you, I just don't feel that I'm using my skills to my best ability on a daily basis. Even the idea of helping to mould the next generation of doctors doesn't match the thrill of working in the mountains, where something as minor as a headache can turn fatal in a matter of hours. It's like flying by the seat of your pants."

John listened, fascinated. "Well, it sounds intriguing right enough, but I don't know all that much about high-altitude medicine. I mean, I had some very limited training in it before I was deployed because there are mountains in Afghanistan, but I was assigned to the desert in the end. I don't know why anyone would even consider me."

"Ah!" said Mike, with a small, pleased smile. "The spring climbing season on Everest is right around the corner — relatively speaking, anyway — and the bloke leading the expedition just lost his doctor unexpectedly. Most of the doctors who are well qualified have already signed on with other expeditions. He won't have much left in the way of choices, because not too many people who know him want to work with him. The doctor he just lost was one of a very few who would even consider it."

"Well, ta very much for the recommendation, then!" John snickered.

Mike continued as if John hadn't spoken. "But I think you could get on with him. You're extremely level-headed, and even though I remember the famous Watson temper, it didn't come out that easily."

"So who are we talking about, then? Would I know of him?"

"Yeah, I think so: Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes, the famous British mountaineer?" John was floored. "You can't go anywhere without seeing his face plastered on some advert or other. Wasn't he just in a commercial for Jaguar at the North Pole or something?"

"That's him. He can be incredibly difficult to deal with, but I really don't think you'll have a problem. And then you could say good-bye to treating chicken pox or erections lasting longer than four hours. In the mountains, things happen fast. You'll need all your wits about you constantly. You were an army surgeon on the front lines — I think you'd be perfectly suited for the job."

"And I would be at this base-camp place and not expected to go higher?" John asked.

"Yes, you'd be at the base camp, because the cure for most medical problems on any mountain is to get the patient down as far as possible, as fast as possible. So you'd be in the expedition's medical tent at base camp, in radio contact with the higher camps. When anything serious goes wrong up high, the first thing they do is bring the patient down. If they can't get to base camp for whatever reason, they will contact you via radio or satellite phone, and you will tell them what to do."

"I have to admit, it sounds fascinating. How much do you think…" John's voice trailed off hesitantly.

Mike nodded understandingly. "As a novice in the field of high altitude medicine, you'd probably only make £9,000 for the two-month season, but some of the more experienced doctors command as much as £18,000."

John stared in shock. "For two months of work?"

"At the most. Leave late March, spend most of April acclimatizing, and the climbing season is usually over by mid-May. There's an extremely narrow window of opportunity for the actual summit attempts, and the mountain is teeming with climbers at that time of year. Sherlock runs impeccable expeditions, but there are so many disorganized groups on Everest nowadays that you're more likely than not to find someone in trouble. There's always something major going wrong that calls for a physician…always!"

"I'm ready to leave right now!" John laughed. "But I'm still not sure that I'm qualified."

"It's only early November. You'll have almost five months to study up on high-altitude medicine. I can point you to the right reference texts. I have no doubt you're up to the challenge."

John gave a small, decisive nod. "All right, then. I'll give it a try. Just about anything would be better than doing prostate exams day in and day out."

"Great." Mike pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled something on a paper napkin. "Here's the address. Sherlock works out of his flat. You can try going over there right now — I'm sure he's in. That business is his life."

"Shouldn't I phone ahead and make an appointment? Or maybe you should call and give me a recommendation up front," John said hesitantly.

"Nah. Just stop by and mention my name. Without a doctor, Sherlock can't run the kind of full-service expedition that he's known for. I think he will be over the moon to see you. Manna from heaven, in fact."

"Hope so, mate," said John. "Here goes nothing." He stood up and grabbed his cane.

"Just remember — he's not going to find it easy to sign another well-qualified doctor this close to the season, so don't accept anything under £9,000!" Mike instructed him sternly.

"Thanks, Mike, really. For the coffee and…everything," John said gratefully.

"Good luck, John," Stamford replied, little dreaming what he had set in motion.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I'm not a climber myself, but this happened anyway.

The doctors' salaries mentioned here may be totally out of date by now because I got them from a book published in the early 2000s. In USD: $15,000 for a novice in the field and $30,000 for someone with experience.


	2. It's the Real Thing

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going. Thanks to johnsarmylady for keeping it British. Any mistakes still remaining are my own.

Disclaimers: I don't own Sherlock. Or Coca-Cola. That's right, I don't own the Coca-Cola Company either, although heaven knows I've guzzled a bottle now and then.

There are notes below the chapter about the medical conditions HAPE and HACE referred to by John during his job interview.

Chapter summary: John is stunned and impressed when he meets Sherlock and gets deduced to within an inch of his life. Sherlock is stunned and impressed when John does not tell him to piss off.

* * *

_Tuesday, 16:30_

John got out of his cab at Baker Street and walked up to a black door with brass numbers reading 221B. The door opened before he even had a chance to reach for the knocker, and a very pleasant-looking elderly woman rushed out, stopping just short of barreling right into him.

"Sorry," they said simultaneously and then laughed together.

The woman held out a hand. "Martha Hudson," she said. "I'm the landlady. How can I help you?"

"John Watson," John said, shaking her hand gently. "Pleased to meet you. I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes."

The landlady, who appeared to be in her mid-seventies or thereabouts, shocked John by winking at him almost lewdly. "I shall be certain to tell Sherlock that you look like a keeper to me."

John flushed. "What? No, no; I'm here about the expedition to Everest."

"Oh, too bad." Martha Hudson sounded disappointed. "Such a handsome one, you are. Well, Sherlock's flat is at the top of the stairs. Sorry, dear; must dash!" Then she trotted off, leaving John to wonder what all this said about his possible future employer.

Closing the door behind him as he entered the building, John stopped short, looking unhappily up an apparently endless staircase. Still, if he couldn't handle a simple flight of stairs, how could he ever reasonably expect to work on a mountain? Taking a deep breath, he started awkwardly up the steps, the cane seemingly more of a hindrance than a help. He counted the stairs as he stumped up. There were seventeen. "Glad I don't live here," he thought. "I would hate having to go up and down like this a couple of times every day."

The flat stood wide open, which certainly seemed to be an invitation to enter, but John rapped loudly on the door anyway as he crossed the threshold.

"Hello?" he called, stepping inside. He didn't see anyone, so he walked in a bit further. "Anybody?"

The flat looked comfortably untidy, exactly like a typical bachelor flat to John's eye. He saw nothing to indicate that someone might be running a business out of it. In fact, John suddenly realized that he had subconsciously been expecting to see a trophy wall covered with pictures of Sherlock Holmes in heroic poses or perhaps standing next to various important personages such as the prime minister — or more likely, Sir Edmund Hillary. However, the only picture on the wall that he could see from where he stood was a very striking, poster-sized advertisement for Coca-Cola: Holmes standing on the summit of Mount Everest, a majestic view down the mountain behind him. The tag line at the bottom of the advert read, "COCA-COLA CONQUERS EVEREST!" Holmes's head and neck were bent gracefully backwards as he chugged a bottle of Coke while snow from the mountain top whipped dramatically all around him.

_Bloody hell, look at that long neck. It should be declared illegal on anything but a swan._ He was examining the image so intently, he almost didn't notice that someone had walked into the room.

Sherlock had been in the upstairs office for over an hour, helping his expedition manager search for a missing invoice. When he realized that someone had entered the flat, he jumped at the excuse to leave the dismal task behind, hurrying down the stairs and into the sitting room. There he saw a short and ridiculously attractive sandy-haired man staring at the Coke advert on the wall with his mouth hanging just the tiniest little bit open.

From his vantage point, Sherlock was able to absorb everything about the man in the blink of an eye. Ramrod-straight posture, extremely short hair: former military, recently discharged. Standing firmly on both feet, cane not necessary: in all likelihood a psychosomatic issue. Healthy-looking, but with a smell of the surgery about him: most likely a doctor. Hideous taste in clothes, but intense concentration on that picture of me: bisexual, with a preference for men.

That last was quite promising, and it spurred Sherlock to look even further: late 30's; calm, competent air; deep creases in all the right places on a wonderfully lived-in face; smile crinkles in the corners of the man's eyes, which were an amazingly warm shade of blue. A bit on the short side: _just the right height for me to put my arm around his shoulders while he wraps his arm around my waist._ Suddenly Sherlock frowned. He had always been irritated by people who desired him on sight, but now here he was, shamelessly doing the same thing to someone else. And unable to stop doing so besides!

John had felt rather than heard someone enter the room and angled his eyes from the Coke poster to the real thing. (Yes, that was a pun.) He swallowed hard. Sherlock Holmes was even better-looking in person than in his photographs. Somewhat embarrassed at having been caught staring at the poster on the wall like a fanboy, John squared his shoulders and straightened his spine even further. "Sherlock Holmes?" he half-asked, half-stated.

"Obviously," Sherlock responded coolly. He felt as though he had been caught wrong-footed, staring at this man he found so immensely appealing, and it brought out his worst side instantly. "Now, what would a former military doctor invalided out of the army want with me?" he asked in a somewhat insolent tone.

_Oh, shit!_ It sounded as though Holmes had already talked to Mike and decided ahead of time he wanted no part of John or his disability. _And I was really interested in this job, too._ Although his lips thinned a bit, John kept his expression carefully impassive. "So, Mike called you after all."

Sherlock was pleased and rather amazed that the attractive man had essentially ignored his offensive manner, but instead of stopping while he was ahead, he plunged recklessly on: "No one called me. But I have discerned everything important about you already. For instance, I can tell by the ramrod way you stand that not only were you a soldier, but you are trying to appear taller than your actual height, which is five foot six — and when you think you can get away with it, you tell people you're five foot seven. I know you're a doctor because the smell of the surgery clings to you. True, you could be a patient but you look too healthy, and a patient wouldn't spend enough time at a surgery that he'd take the smell away so strongly. I know your problem is psychosomatic because when you stand still, you put your weight equally on both legs, which shows that you don't need that cane at all. I can also tell from your tanned face and hands that you were stationed somewhere hot and sunny. You were wounded, but not in the leg — I'm guessing the left shoulder because you hold it more stiffly than the right one — and there are currently only two hot, sunny places where you could have taken part in fighting. So: Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Sherlock hadn't meant to blurt all that out, because he very much liked what he saw when he looked at the sandy-haired man and certainly didn't want to drive him away. The problem was that he never could stop himself once he got started with his deductions. Wincing inwardly, he waited for the intriguing visitor to get upset and stomp out of the flat.

But what actually happened was that John's face crinkled in all the right places, and he said, "Afghanistan. That was amazing!"

"Oh. Well. That's not at all what I thought you were going to say," Sherlock admitted, surprised.

John said, "What did you think I was going to say? 'Piss off'?"

"It's been known to happen."

John replied with the faintest of gentle smiles, "Yes, I can see how it might."

Sherlock said, "But you didn't say it. Apparently you're not as much of an idiot as most people."

"Thanks, I think," John grinned, and Sherlock's knees went a bit weak at the sight. The doctor was an absolute knockout when he grinned.

A handsome, silver-haired man came running down the stairs from the floor above and burst into the sitting room. "Sherlock," he said, sounding frustrated, "We must have spent an hour tearing the office apart, but there's still no sign of that bloody invoice from…" his voice trailed off as he saw John. "Oh, hello."

Sherlock said, "Ah, Greg. This doctor is here to interview for the medical position. Doctor…?"

"John Watson," John said automatically.

_John_, Sherlock repeated to himself, enthralled. _John Watson_. Immediately the name went onto a brass sign nailed to a door in his Mind Palace. The door opened and the room behind it prepared to accept a flood of _John_-data_._

"Well, then, Dr. John Watson, this is Greg Lestrade, who acts as my general manager, both here and on Everest."

John might not even have heard the introduction. "Wait, how did you know I'm here to interview…?"

"It wasn't particularly difficult to ascertain," Sherlock replied unhelpfully.

Looking mystified, John turned to the general manager.

Greg Lestrade nodded and shrugged. "Yeah, he's always like that. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson. Sherlock, I have to run. Mycroft just called and said he can get away early tonight, so we're going to dinner. See you in the morning." And he was out the door.

John and Sherlock watched him go, then turned to look at each other. There was a moment of awkward silence, then: "Perhaps we should start over," said Sherlock, sounding conciliatory. "Sherlock Holmes," and he held out a hand.

"John Watson," John replied, shaking Sherlock's hand firmly. Something electrical may have passed between them when their palms came together; Sherlock certainly felt a fizzing and tingling that started in his fingertips and spread throughout his entire body. His grip on John's hand lingered a bit longer than was necessary; truthfully, he didn't want to let go at all.

John released his hand casually, as if he hadn't noticed that Sherlock held onto it longer than strictly proper (but he had noticed; of course he had). "I still don't understand how you knew I was here for the expedition billet, but I have to tell you honestly that I'm not certain I have the necessary qualifications for the job. And then there's my leg." He slapped at the offending limb with his cane.

Sherlock answered, "I thought at first that you might be here wanting to sign up to be a member of the expedition — you really do look quite fit except for that pointless cane — but then I realised that your slightly ill-fitting, cheap clothes meant that you wouldn't be able to afford it. Once I deduced you were a doctor, however, it became obvious that Mike Stamford sent you."

"How did you know…?" John asked helplessly, beginning to feel like a parrot with only one phrase.

"You told me yourself, when you wondered if perhaps Mike had called about you. But even if you hadn't let that slip, I'd have known. You're approximately Mike's age; I assume you were in the same class in medical school. You still smell of the surgery, so you must have run into him right after your shift ended this afternoon. It's the first time you've seen him since you were discharged. He knows — the entire British climbing community knows — that my doctor had to withdraw. You told Mike you were bored — now, that deduction was ridiculously simple: a war-time field surgeon _would_ be — and he told you about this job. And by the way, your limp is not an issue, because as I mentioned earlier, it's psychosomatic in the first place."

"That was absolutely extraordinary," John said sincerely.

Sherlock's cheeks pinked up lightly. "You do realize you said that out loud?"

"Yes," John said, looking Sherlock squarely in the eye. "And I meant it." John's direct gaze set off a faint flutter in Sherlock's stomach.

"Well," Sherlock said, inwardly thrilled with John's lavish praise, "there are mountains in Afghanistan, so the army probably gave you at least _some_ basic instruction in high altitude medicine. Take a seat and tell me what you remember." Unable to resist touching John again, he put a hand on the small of the doctor's back and guided him to a comfortable-looking armchair with a Union Jack pillow. Sherlock himself took a more modern-looking leather chair opposite.

John slowly removed his coat and threw it over the back of the chair before he sat down. He took that time to collect his thoughts, because his mind had gone absolutely blank when Sherlock's large, warm hand settled on his back. Then, pulling himself together, he went over everything he could recall about diseases of high altitude, such as HAPE and HACE. After that, he started in on the treatments for frostbite, retinal burns, snow-blindness, and anything else he could dredge up from the day-long seminar he attended before being deployed to Afghanistan. He remembered considerably more than he had expected to. Or maybe it was just something about Sherlock that pulled it out of him even after all this time. He felt a powerful need to impress the mountaineer, having absolutely nothing to do with wanting the job.

Sherlock was quite pleased with John's knowledge of high altitude medicine, which definitely covered all the basics. He was clearly a highly competent physician, besides being an experienced combat surgeon and a soldier, and by this time Sherlock knew that John would be able to pick up more advanced knowledge with very little effort. And he was exceptionally easy on the eyes. _And_ he hadn't run screaming from the room after being the target of the full deductive treatment that had been known to terrify lesser men. About the only way this could get any better would be for John to acknowledge that he had noticed Sherlock's subtle overtures and indicate that he returned the interest.

"So, that's about it," John said, coming to the end of everything he could remember learning during the seminar. Sherlock was mildly disappointed — John spoke in a pleasant tenor pitch, and Sherlock thought he wouldn't mind listening to it for a long time to come. Years. He had a sudden intimation of what John might come to mean to him, given a chance. _Forever._

"Sherlock?" Suddenly the mountaineer realized that John was asking him something.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked, a bit flustered to have been caught daydreaming about forever because of the sound of John's voice.

"I said, tell me about the expedition, and what my duties would be if hired," John repeated patiently.

"Where would you specifically like me to begin?"

"How about starting with the name of your company?" John smiled, and it felt to Sherlock as though the sun had just come out. He started plotting ways to keep this amazing person lighting up 221B for as long as possible. Actually, forever might not be nearly long enough.

He pulled a business card out of his wallet and held it out to John, making sure that their hands brushed together in the process. Apparently unaware of the contact, John accepted the card.

Baker Street Climbing Consultants  
221B Baker Street  
London, England NW1  
07 123 456 789

Sherlock Holmes, Proprietor

* * *

**HAPE and HACE  
**About High Altitude Pulmonary Edema and High Altitude Cerebral Edema: The higher a climber goes, the more red blood cells his or her body needs to carry oxygen. Therefore, in order to thicken the blood with those red blood cells, the body will pull fluid out of the blood and store it elsewhere. This is fine (although uncomfortable) if the fluid goes into the skin or the limbs, but if the fluid builds up in the lungs or the brain, the condition will quickly turn fatal. As Mike mentioned to John in Chapter 1, the cure for most medical problems on any mountain is to get the patient down as far as possible, as fast as possible. When it comes to HAPE or HACE, the climber's life will absolutely depend upon it.

**07 123 456 789  
**I made up this phone number from a website explaining what a mobile phone number for England would look like. I sincerely hope it isn't a real number but in any case, it can't possibly be Sherlock Holmes's number.**  
**


	3. If John Were Anyone Else

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

I recently received a comment questioning the possibility of helicopters on Everest above Camp Two. I actually addressed this issue in an end note, but of course not everyone wants to plow through all that stuff and I can totally understand that. So I will just mention briefly here that on May 14, 2005, a test pilot for the French company Eurocopter landed a totally unmodified turbo engine AS350 B3 helicopter on the summit. In the almost 10 years since then, companies have been formed to ferry people to the summit or just do fly-bys. The end note has more information in it, if you're interested.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

* * *

Chapter Summary: As they ate, each man wondered to himself how this night was going to end. They talked about anything and everything, happy to be in each other's company. But there was definitely an undertone of tension in the air which added a tantalizing spice to the meal, and during the few, brief lulls in the conversation, they watched each other stealthily out of the corners of their eyes.

* * *

_Tuesday, 17:30 to 22:00_

John had indeed noticed that Sherlock touched him unnecessarily while passing him the card. And there _had_ been that slightly-overlong handshake as well. And the hand on his back, warm as a caress. But John had no intention of throwing himself pathetically at a man who could clearly pick up anyone he wanted with a snap of his fingers. So he kept his face carefully neutral as he accepted the card.

"Baker Street Climbing Consultants," John read aloud. "Interesting name."

Sherlock was disappointed at the lack of response to his third small overture. Of course, anyone as handsome as John was probably propositioned ten times a day by men and women alike and had become adept at ignoring such things if he did not return the interest. The entire situation was extremely galling. Experience had taught Sherlock he could have anyone he wanted, and up until this moment he had taken it totally for granted. Now here was someone to whom he realised he was _beyond_ attracted, who didn't appear to be interested at all!

Perhaps he was being too subtle? If John were anyone else, _anyone else_, Sherlock would just bluntly offer to have sex. One hand job or blow job later, Sherlock's transport would be satisfied and that would be the end of it. But this wasn't about his transport at all; there was clearly something else going on, something he'd never felt before. He couldn't even put a name to it. Whatever it was, Sherlock wanted to investigate it further, and he definitely did not want to jeopardise it by bringing it down to the same level as all his other sexual encounters.

John was looking thoughtfully down at the business card. "I'm still not sure why anyone would think that I can handle being on the mountain with this dodgy leg. Mike mentioned that the way to Everest is a very long hike, and that the base camp is located at 17,000 feet!"

_Back to business, _Sherlock told himself sternly. "That is correct. I incorporate the time it takes to reach Everest Base Camp on foot as part of the acclimation process. It's a challenging hike — or trek, if you prefer that term — but I've had clients from 16 to 80 years of age handle it successfully. I've guided clients with artificial limbs and clients suffering from terminal diseases. Some in the expedition fall ill due to the unsanitary conditions in the villages where we stop along the way, but even the hikers suffering from virulent intestinal infections always make it. You probably won't even have to wait until we reach the mountain to take on your first patients."

John was looking considerably more at ease, so Sherlock went on, "I make sure that everyone keeps to a measured pace in order to give our bodies time to adapt to the air, which will grow increasingly thinner the farther we hike. I don't expect anyone to walk more than three or four hours a day, plus I schedule designated acclimatisation days, where we remain in a village along the way for one entire day and night.

"The trek lasts about a week the way I pace it, and during that time, we will go gradually from 9,200 feet to 17,000 feet. Even if you still require your cane by the time we get to Nepal — which I am confident you shall not — you'll have no problem." He saw the wistful, slightly-disbelieving look on John's face, but if things turned out the way Sherlock planned, John would not even be needing his cane by the end of the evening! Which Sherlock still intended should end in his bed…that is to say, the two of them, together. After all, John was still here. John was still here when most people would have walked off almost the minute Sherlock started blurting out his extremely blunt deductions. John was still here, listening. _John was still here, _and Sherlock was hopeful it wasn't only because of the job.

"And what about you, Sherlock? What are your qualifications?" John wondered. "I mean, I see you in adverts everywhere, but specifically, how did you get where you are? I know that you're a famous mountaineer, but I have no idea what that actually means."

Paradoxically, Sherlock was thrilled that John knew so little about him and thus clearly was not interested in him for his fame alone. On the other hand, it seemed possible that John was not interested in him at all; at least, not the way Sherlock wanted him to be. Resolutely shoving aside that discouraging thought, Sherlock explained to John about the fourteen mountains that climbers universally refer to as 8000ers. "There are only fourteen mountains on earth that rise higher than 8000 metres, and it's considered a matter of great significance to have climbed all of them. I am still one of only a handful of people in the world ever to have completed the undertaking. I was, in fact, the first Englishman to do so.

"I also did the Seven Summits in seven months — those are the highest mountains of each of the seven continents," he explained in response to John's questioning look. "Over time I came to the notice of advertisers; at first only to companies that sold climbing or sporting gear, but it exploded from there. I made more than enough money to fund climbing trips that way, but I knew it was going to come to an end sooner or later — everyone expects your next climb to be more difficult and more daring than the one before. I knew eventually I would run out of reasonably exciting challenges to interest sponsors. So I decided to start my own commercial expedition company. My fame from the adverts launched this business, but it's my ability to get clients safely to the summit of Everest that keeps it going."

John had barely noticed the passage of time, so interested was he in listening to (and looking at) Sherlock Holmes. But suddenly his stomach growled loudly. "Sorry," he said a bit sheepishly.

"Nonsense," Sherlock said warmly, in his thrillingly-low baritone. "We've been talking for hours, and it's definitely past time to eat. I'll order something from a restaurant I know that delivers." Sherlock rose from the leather chair, pulled out his mobile and left the flat, walking down the stairs without a word of explanation. Still seated, John waited, puzzled, but Sherlock came right back, smiling broadly. "Angelo will be here soon with our food. I left the outside door open a bit so he can come right in — I just hope my landlandy never finds out. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to take a shower and change. I spent what seemed like half the afternoon rummaging around through dusty records, searching for some irrelevant piece of paper that never turned up anyway. Tedious." He disappeared down a hallway without waiting for an answer. After a few minutes John heard a shower start up.

Now John stood, feeling conflicted. He had the feeling that Sherlock wouldn't have minded company for the shower. He hoped that whatever was going on wasn't just about sex, but at the same time, he desperately wanted to know if Sherlock's mouth would be as delicious to kiss as it looked — or if it was possible for it to be even more delicious than it looked.

Just around the time the shower stopped running, John was dragged out of an increasingly prurient daydream about Cupid's-bow lips by the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. There was a perfunctory knock at the open door. "Here's your dinner," boomed a bear-like man striding into the room. Angelo, John assumed. "A nice meal, made specially for the two of you with very little garlic," the man clapped John on the shoulder in a shocking overly-familiar manner, "and a candle to make it more romantic."

Realizing with some dismay that Sherlock had left him to pay for the food, John reached for his wallet, wondering how much it would take to cover the cost of what looked to be a very large meal. But Angelo shook his head. "No charge. Never a charge for Sherlock. He saved my brother's life on the Dru during a storm. I can't thank him enough." John would have loved to hear that story, but Angelo just said, "So you're his date." Laughing at John's rather wistful, "I wish," Angelo continued, "Sherlock said dinner for two. Sherlock has _never_ ordered dinner for two here at Baker Street. You must be very special." He handed a bag bulging with food to John, beamed widely again, and left.

John peeked into the bag and saw numerous food containers and the candle. He looked around the flat wondering exactly where to put everything. Most of the horizontal surfaces were already covered with books and papers. And was that a microscope on the kitchen table, and a rack of test tubes?

Sherlock strode back into the room dressed in black trousers and a skintight purple shirt, his dark, curly hair still slightly damp from the shower. The very sight of him rooted John to the spot. Noticing John's deer-in-the-headlights expression, Sherlock ran his gaze fully over John's body from head to toe and willed the doctor to make the next move.

But all John did was hold out the food bag. "The food came," he said, stating the obvious, considering that he was holding a bag on which the word "ANGELO'S" featured rather prominently.

Another chance gone by! Sherlock sighed inwardly, took the bag from John and turned to the dining room table, sweeping piles of papers and books off one end onto the floor. He set the food delivery down on the now-cleared area, opening the bag and checking the contents in his turn. "What's the candle for, John?"

John shrugged. "Angelo thought you had a date, so he delivered a candle along with the food."

"Ah." Sherlock set plates and silverware on the table, putting himself at the head and John to his left along the side. Then with an oblique glance at John, he very deliberately lit the candle. John's breath hitched in his throat — it was becoming ever more clear that he was not imagining Sherlock's interest. But he still was not going to just throw himself at the man. He wanted this to mean something more than a one-night stand, though his body was starting to inform him that a one-night stand would be preferable to nothing.

As they ate, each man wondered to himself how this night was going to end. They talked about anything and everything, simply happy to be in each other's company. But there was definitely an undertone of tension in the air which added a tantalizing spice to the meal, and during the few, brief lulls in the conversation, they watched each other stealthily out of the corners of their eyes.

Sherlock finished his own substantial meal first and started stealing bites off John's plate.

"Blimey, where do you put it all, Sherlock? You're so thin."

"I work it off. In fact, I have to work even harder to keep it _on_. Before the expedition starts, I am going to have to gain at least 25 pounds, because I shall probably lose that much on the mountain during the climb."

John nodded. He remembered learning that metabolic processes slow down at height and practically cease above approximately 26,000 feet, the region known as the Death Zone. Climbers at that altitude can barely force themselves to drink the water they desperately need to keep from becoming dehydrated, let alone eat properly.

As John continued with the somewhat-losing battle of trying to get to his remaining food before Sherlock did, Sherlock said, "This is genuinely delightful, John. I don't often have someone to eat with."

"You need a girlfriend to feed you up," John said, and even though it seemed clear enough that Sherlock preferred men, he held his breath until Sherlock answered, "Mmm, not remotely my area."

"Do you have a boyfriend, then?" John asked, crossing his fingers mentally._ Say no._

"No, I'm alone, and have been for quite some time."

_YES! _"Huh. Hard to believe. A famous bloke like you," John said noncommittally.

"Most people are repulsed by my behaviour," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, reaching out with his fork to stab another morsel of food from John's plate — the same piece John had been about to take.

"Their loss," John shrugged, shovelling a bit more into his mouth before Sherlock could steal it.

Soon every bite of Angelo's delicious meal was gone. Sherlock got up to clear the table and noticed John staring at the Coke poster again. "That poster fascinates you, John. Why?" He preened a bit, thinking for sure that the answer would be, "Because of you," but John surprised him once more.

The doctor stood up and walked over stand in front of the poster. "Well," he said, "for one thing, I think that a glass bottle would explode at the summit from the difference in pressure between the carbonation inside the bottle and the outside, where the air, if I remember correctly, is three times thinner than at sea level. And even if the glass didn't blow up from the pressure differential, the liquid would freeze solid almost instantly at that height, yeah? You'd never be able to drink it. So why would anyone carry a bottle of Coke to the summit of Everest?"

"I was right; you are clearly not as much of an idiot as most people," Sherlock said, pleased. John just shook his head and smiled. It was obvious that Sherlock was actually complimenting him, as roundabout as the attempt might be.

Sherlock came over to stand next to John and look at the poster himself. "Let me tell you a secret, John: that bottle is empty and was later photoshopped to make it look as though Coke were flowing out of it into my mouth."

John forced himself not to think about Sherlock's mouth or some of the other implications of the statement. "So you climbed to the top of Mount Everest just to pretend to drink a bottle of Coke?"

"No, a helicopter flew us up there from Base Camp. The photographer and I got out, we did the shoot in under ten minutes, got back in the helicopter and returned to Base Camp."

This struck John as absolutely hilarious. His infectious giggle invited Sherlock to laugh along, and that made John giggle even harder. Eventually their amusement ran down, and they looked searchingly at each other. Sherlock's eyes roamed once again over John's body.

It was by now crystal clear to John that Sherlock intended to leave the next move up to him, so he licked his lips and took the chance. "I noticed that you've been undressing me with your eyes for quite a while now," he said, as steadily as he was able.

Sherlock asked a bit uncertainly, "Is that a problem?"

John replied cheekily, "No, but it might be easier if you used your hands."

Something warm and joyous blossomed inside Sherlock's chest. He lunged forward and kissed John fiercely, immediately attempting to shove his tongue down John's throat; then he froze when John pulled away a bit. "Ungh," John said, because it was hard to talk with Sherlock's tongue in his mouth.

Sherlock was dismayed. Was it possible that he had blown this opportunity already?

But John simply murmured, "Slow down, Sherlock, we have all night." He offered his mouth again, and Sherlock decelerated enough to realise that John was kissing him quite tenderly, and not behaving at all as if he expected a quick shag.

Sherlock was used to one-night stands, and even though that wasn't what he wanted from John, "blunt" was the only way he knew to initiate a sexual experience. John, however, was being gentle, yet very firm about his intentions to take it more slowly. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, then wound his arms tightly around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock could feel John's arousal pressed against his body but it was clear that John wasn't simply trying to get off. John was…John was doing something amazing. John was _caring_.

Sherlock had always been a cut-to-the-chase bloke; never saw any reason to waste time snogging. Not even with Victor, his longest-lasting relationship (_up until now_, his mind added hopefully). Why spend time swapping spit when you could just get off by reaching into each other's pants or by convincing the other guy to get down on his knees? That had always seemed to Sherlock to be the point of it all anyway. But now he felt John's lips moving gently against his, mouth a bit slack but not quite ready yet to accept Sherlock's tongue. The mountaineer broke out in chills. He could do this for _hours_ and enjoy every second of it. And so John managed to surprise Sherlock one more time this momentous night.

They came up for air reluctantly, still clinging together tightly. Smiling, John kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose, then rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder and sighed happily.

A wave of unfamiliar emotion almost knocked Sherlock down. He whimpered, completely overcome by something so much more than desire that he had no word for it. Usually he had his physical needs taken care of, and then it was over. That was all he had ever needed. But now he moaned softly into John's ear, "I want you, John. I want you. I just want_ you_."

John didn't realise the earth-shaking epiphany Sherlock was going through, but the sincerity of the emotion in Sherlock's voice brought him close to orgasm. He said, "Bedroom now, before I completely disgrace myself by coming in my pants like a teenager," and Sherlock said, "_Yes_, John, _now,_" eagerly. He used his own slender body to back the stockier man firmly all the way down the hall to the bedroom so they didn't need to separate, so he could feel every inch of John's compact body pressed up again him, so they wouldn't lose contact for a second. Once in the bedroom he pushed a bit more gently, until the backs of John's knees came up against the edge of the bed. John overbalanced, and Sherlock followed him down to the mattress.

* * *

Notes:

About 8000ers: For this story, I am planning to use US Standard measurements (also called British Imperial) rather than metrics. However, I'm using the metric term "8000ers" for mountains rising 8000 meters and above because that's the universally-accepted term. All 14 of the world's 8000ers are in the Himalayas.

8000 meters = 26,247 feet. This is the height at which the Death Zone begins.

The first Briton to reach the summit to all 14 of the 8000ers was actually a climber named Alan Hinkes. As of 2011, a total of 26 people had summited all 14 peaks undisputed. At least four people have died attempting this goal.

On May 14, 2005, test pilot Didier Delsalle, 48, of the French company Eurocopter made Everest and aviation history by landing his unmodified turbo engine AS350 B3 helicopter on the summit. Since then, companies have been formed to ferry people to the summit or just do fly-bys. I made up the whole thing about the Coke ad, but here I would like to remind the readers that the helicopter flew up from Base Camp and not from sea level: going to the summit of Everest directly from sea level would kill any unacclimated human in minutes. Even flying up from Base Camp would be a dangerous strain on the body, so (even though Sherlock didn't mention it) he, the photographer and the pilot were all using oxygen gear. Sherlock only took his off when the photos were being snapped. So there you go!

Here are the world's fourteen 8000ers from highest to lowest. They are all in the Himalayas:  
Mount Everest  
K-2  
Kanchenjunga  
Lhotse  
Makalu  
Cho Oyu  
Dhaulagiri  
Manaslu  
Nanga Parbat  
Annapurna i  
Gasherbrum i  
Broad Peak  
Gasherbrum ii  
Shisha Pangma (Xixabangma)


	4. The Cure

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter Summary:

Sherlock slung an arm around John's shoulders. "Greg, say hello to our new expedition doctor."

"Wait, I've got the job?" John said, having somehow forgotten the original reason for his presence in 221B.

"Of course you've got the job, John," Sherlock rejoined. "A soldier AND a doctor? A combat-trained surgeon? You might have been custom-made precisely for me."

* * *

_Wednesday 03:00-10:00_

Sherlock returned to consciousness abruptly. He and John were pressed tightly together in a tangle of arms and legs, and Sherlock realised he was no longer covered with sweat and semen. He had a hazy memory of John, the perfect gentleman, getting up and cleaning them both off, but he remembered absolutely nothing after that.

"If that was sex," Sherlock thought, "I may as well have been celibate my entire adult life. Or perhaps that is what is meant by the term _making love_?" Because he'd had sex when he found it necessary, but he knew damn well he had never made love to anyone — until now.

Sherlock had rarely been interested in sex, finding it messy and distracting. But every now and then his transport informed him he needed the physical release. Masturbation was tedious and boring, so he went out on the prowl looking for someone aesthetically pleasing to him to satisfy his needs. But it was never really about the other person — it was only about Sherlock's transport. But this: this was not about his transport; this was all about John. And it was the most satisfactory sex Sherlock had ever had. No, it was most satisfactory sex anyone had ever had. Ever on earth. No, ever in the entire universe. Clearly.

He gently disentangled himself from John and rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, studying his doctor by the ambient moonlight filtering in through the slightly-parted curtains. John was sleeping heavily judging by his breathing pattern, and in sleep, his relaxed face made him look a good ten years younger. But Sherlock also liked the lined, lived-in, awake face, especially when it was looking at him with wonder and admiration.

This had been a night of many firsts. The first time he'd had sex with anyone in 221B. The first time he'd spent the night with anyone since Victor. The first time he'd ever made love.

And the sounds! He replayed the entire thing in his mind with perfect recall from the moment he had nudged John onto the bed, and all he could hear was himself moaning John's name, begging for more, then begging to make it stop, and crying out John's name at the end. Sherlock had never lost control like that before, and it was thrilling and terrifying all at once.

John had been quieter, but then, John had been doing most of the work. No one, certainly not Victor, had ever touched Sherlock, kissed him, made sure to pleasure him, the way John had earlier this night. If pushed, Sherlock might admit that he had felt cherished. (But he hoped never to be pushed that far, because it sounded suspiciously like admitting to _sentiment_.)

Then Sherlock noticed that there was a tiny bit of drool leaking out of one of the corners of John's mouth. Impulsively he lapped at it, and John's eyes opened.

"Sherlock, are you…are you _licking_ me?" John asked sleepily, reaching out and pulling Sherlock back into his arms.

"…John…" Sherlock murmured and then pressed his tongue gently into John's willing mouth. After a moment Sherlock raised his head. "…Stay," he blurted. "Stay with me."

"Well, I wasn't planning to get up out of this comfortable bed at zero-fucking-dark in the middle of the night," John smiled drowsily. "Especially as long as you keep kissing me like that."

"I wasn't just speaking of tonight," Sherlock replied. "Stay with me, here, in 221B."

"We've only just met and already you want to move in together?" John's sleepy voice sounded chuffed, and his arms tightened possessively around Sherlock's neck.

"Yes, John," Sherlock said. "That is exactly what I want."

"How do you even know we would suit each other?" John asked curiously. He was clearly starting to wake up a bit more.

Was this considered too soon to move in together by some social protocol Sherlock didn't understand? But he didn't want John to leave! Not ever. Sherlock replied, "It will become clear when you move in." Though his tone was steady, inwardly he was anxious.

"Well, all right, then; far be it from me to argue with that logic," John murmured happily against Sherlock's neck.

Although Sherlock would have sworn ahead of time it shouldn't have been possible, the sex was even better the second time around.

**~~~/~~~**

The next morning, John awoke with the sun. Sherlock groaned that it was too early to get up and attempted to keep John in the bed with some suggestive hip thrusts. John said cheerfully, "Stay in bed, then, you great slug; but I need food before I can even _think_ about sex again — I'm not as young as I once was." Kissing Sherlock lingeringly a few times, he slipped out of the bed. After taking a quick shower and pulling on his clothes from the day before, he practically floated through the flat to the kitchen to find something to eat.

"Sherlock? I'm starving, and there's absolutely nothing to eat here," John called out, after checking the fridge, the breadbox, and every cupboard below and above the counter. He saw nothing in any of them that appeared to be edible.

Sherlock came stumbling out of the bedroom wrapped in a sheet, with sleep-filled eyes and gorgeous bed-head, much of it caused by John grabbing his hair during various overnight orgasms. "Take some money out of my wallet and go to Speedy's downstairs," Sherlock mumbled. "They make excellent bacon butties, and scrambled eggs or omelettes with toast and sausage. You can order takeaway for us both." He yawned hugely. "I'll have whatever you have."

John took some notes from Sherlock's wallet and strode to the door. He opened it, hesitated, then returned to kiss Sherlock on the tip of his nose. "Back soon," he promised. He turned and ran lightly down the stairs, a stunning happiness over the events of the past day (and night) crowding everything out of his mind except his quest for food.

He had to wait a while in Speedy's because he impulsively ordered two of practically everything on the breakfast menu, a decision that elicited a rather odd look from the waitress. But hey, sex uses up a lot of calories. Twenty minutes later he shot back back up the stairs carrying a couple of bags of food, hurrying because he couldn't wait to see Sherlock again. He got to the top step and saw the man, now showered and fully dressed, standing in the entryway to 221B twirling John's cane, a big smirk on his face.

John's mouth hung open for a second, then a disbelieving grin spread over his face.

Sherlock smirked even harder.

"How did you —" John began.

"I noticed last night that you set your cane aside and didn't even think about it until we talked about the trek to Everest, when you glanced at it several times. Once you were assured that you would be able to handle getting to Base Camp, you forgot all about it again…completely…for the rest of the evening. I knew all I had to do was keep you distracted and you would never remember it."

"Could you look any more pleased with yourself?" John wondered.

"This is my first miracle cure. I think I'm entitled," Sherlock sniffed.

John slammed the door behind him, dropped the food bags on the floor and threw himself into Sherlock's arms, intending to kiss him senseless and then eat breakfast, but it wasn't long before they were grinding their hips together helplessly. "So much for not being able to think about sex before the food," was John's last coherent thought for a while.

**~~~/~~~**

They ate a cold breakfast an hour later.

Sitting once again at the cleared section of the dining-room table, Sherlock grumbled that far from gaining weight, he'd be losing it because of all the extra exercise he'd be getting with John.

John said, "Clearly you'll just have to eat even more off my plate."

Sherlock laughed. Then he looked at John in wonderment.

"What?" John asked self-consciously. "Do I have food on my chin?"

Sherlock shook his head. "This seems incomprehensible to me. Most of last night, no matter how many hints I dropped, you did not appear to be at all attracted to me. I even imagined you were studying the Coke poster because of me, but then it turned out you were actually analyzing it…and there I was thinking that the only person I have ever truly wanted wasn't in the least interested."

"How could anyone not be interested? You're bloody brilliant, and you're gorgeous."

"John, many people are immediately attracted to the way I look, but they flee the minute I open my mouth. You stayed and you didn't act offended, but that didn't mean you were interested. It might have just as easily meant you wanted the job badly enough to tolerate me."

John took a big, satisfying bite from his cold bacon roll. "I'm glad you kept at it anyway," he said with his mouth full. "Because I wasn't about to make a move until I was absolutely sure you were interested. Afraid I'd look the fool, throwing myself at an amazing bloke like you."

Sherlock said, "Oh, I wanted you the moment I came down the stairs and saw you standing in front of the Coke poster. I must admit that nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and I don't know what it is about you, although I sincerely hope I will have many years to analyse it. And I should tell you, most people can't surprise me even once, but you must have done so at least half a dozen times yesterday. You have no idea how special you really are."

"Still don't understand what you see in me," John confessed, shaking his head.

"Well, you're not totally repulsive…" Sherlock stroked his chin judiciously, "…and you're not a complete idiot."

"High praise indeed," said John, rolling his eyes, and they snickered into their bacon rolls.

At the end of the meal, John took all the bags, containers and plastic utensils into the kitchen to bin them. When he turned around, Sherlock was standing in the doorway between the two rooms, regarding him thoughtfully.

"You are going to move in here with me today; this morning, in fact. I absolutely forbid you to spend one more minute in a pathetic bedsit."

"Now, how did you know I rent a bedsit?"

"Don't be simple-minded; John; I can tell by the way you part your hair."

"But I don't part my hair," John protested.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly."

John shook his head. "I have no idea what you're going on about, but you are absolutely incredible!" And Sherlock knew without a doubt that he would never, ever get tired of hearing that from John's lips. Or of kissing John's lips…

Suddenly Sherlock strode to the front door of the flat and pulled it open. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted down the stairs. In a few moments, Mrs. Hudson called back, "For heaven's sake, Sherlock, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson. Quite the contrary, everything's perfect. I want you to come meet Dr. Watson. He's moving in."

"We've already met," John said, and Mrs. Hudson's voice came up the stairwell, moving ever closer as she navigated the seventeen steps, "We met yesterday afternoon."

The elderly woman entered the flat and smiled at John. "So you're a doctor? You never mentioned that yesterday. Handsome _and_ modest, Dr. Watson."

"Call me John, please," he said, blushing a bit. "Good to see you again, Mrs. Hudson."

"And you're going to be flatmates?" Mrs. Hudson wasn't quite sure what was going on, because she remembered that the day before, the doctor had said he was here about the expedition. "There's a second bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing it, but Sherlock will have to do some serious clearing up in there before—"

"Of course he won't be needing it," Sherlock interrupted briskly. "He's moving in with me. And I shall, of course, still require that room as a business office."

" 'I'm here about the expedition,' indeed," Mrs. Hudson tittered, while John smiled sheepishly and Sherlock admired the crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

"Well, I don't want my scones to burn, so I'll leave you two alone to sort things out," Mrs. Hudson said as she left the flat. "I'm very happy for you both."

It seemed too long to Sherlock since he last touched his doctor. He walked over to John and pulled him close by the simple and direct method of putting a hand on each of his hips. "John, there are plenty of empty packing boxes in the office upstairs," he said, nuzzling John's hair. "How many do you think we'll need to transport your belongings?"

"Everything I own will fit into two decent-sized boxes," John replied promptly, and Sherlock looked down at him in surprise. John shrugged. "I was in the army for years, Sherlock. Most of the time in a war zone. I didn't accumulate much."

"What about prior to the army? Textbooks from medical school and so on?"

"Oh, I left all that with someone to keep for me, and I think it got pitched over time," John said off-handedly. Sherlock heard something a little evasive in his voice and was about to comment, but just then Baker Street Climbing Consultants' general manager showed up for work.

John immediately made a mental note to keep bedroom activities confined to the bedroom on workdays.

Greg Lestrade blinked in surprise when he saw the two men standing in intimate proximity, the doctor wearing the same clothes as the day before.

John and Sherlock stepped apart and turned to face the expedition manager. Sherlock slung an arm around John's shoulders. "Greg, say hello to our new expedition doctor."

"Wait, I've got the job?" John said, having somehow forgotten the original reason for his presence in 221B.

"Of course you've got the job, John," Sherlock rejoined. "A soldier AND a doctor? A combat-trained surgeon? You might have been custom-made precisely for me." Sherlock turned a little pink, realizing what he'd just said. "I'll go get those boxes so we can start moving you in before you change your mind about living here." He turned and loped out of the room.

Bemused, John shook his head as Sherlock disappeared up the stairs. Why Sherlock thought he was going to change his mind…

Greg Lestrade said incredulously, "He let you spend the night? He wants you to move in? Bloody hell! What did you do to him, Dr. Watson? Sherlock hasn't spent time with anyone two days in a row, let alone spent the night. Not since Victor, anyway."

John had no idea who Victor was, and while he certainly knew that Sherlock was no virgin, he had to fight down an insane pang of jealousy at the thought of someone else with Sherlock for anything but a casual fling. And even for that.

Lestrade was still talking. "He tells everyone he's married to his work, he doesn't go out, and he's certainly never let anyone spend the night here. If he sleeps with them, he goes to their place, leaves before morning and makes damn sure he never sees them again."

Of course John was thrilled, but also confused, and he struggled to reconcile the Sherlock described by Lestrade with the man who had urged him to move in within hours of their meeting. And shook his head when he could not do so.

"I ought to warn you, though, Doctor. Sherlock can be a handful." John flushed, remembering the handful he'd gotten just that morning.

Sherlock came back down the stairs carrying two empty boxes in time to see John turning red.

"Honestly, Lestrade, what have you been saying to my new expedition doctor?" he demanded, dropping the boxes, coming up behind John and wrapping both his arms around John's waist. The general manager looked gobsmacked at Sherlock's easy, open display of affection.

"By the way, we're going to John's bedsit to get his things and move him in here. To my bedroom," Sherlock added pointedly. "Just so you'll know exactly what to tell my nosey parker brother."

Greg stared after them in shock as they donned their coats and walked out of the flat carrying the empty boxes, bumping shoulders and hips together on purpose like a couple of silly kids.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and PM'd me! I love hearing from you. I welcome reviews whether they say "I don't like this because…" or "Good job!"


	5. I Would Put It On A Billboard

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and PM'd me! I love hearing from you. I especially want to thank guest reviewer "hh" for reading my end note last chapter and taking me literally! Good job back atcha!

Chapter Excerpt: Impatiently, Sherlock grabbed the mobile out of John's hand. "Actually, Dr. Watson will not be able to come in today _or_ tomorrow, because he is taking a sex break. He shall return on his next scheduled workday." And he disconnected the call.

* * *

_Wednesday 10:00-14:00_

It was a beautiful morning, bright under a cold November sun. Sherlock and John stood on the pavement directly outside the black door marked 221B and inhaled the fresh air deeply. John held the two empty boxes nested together under one arm; he wrapped his other arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock put an arm around John's shoulders and realised with great satisfaction that this was precisely how he had imagined things would happen almost immediately upon meeting John — less than 24 hours earlier, as amazing as that was. He leaned over to kiss John's hair, his temple, his nose and finally his mouth.

Sherlock was a very public figure, and John was concerned about such open displays of affection. "People will talk," he pointed out, once Sherlock gave him his mouth back.

"People do little else," Sherlock replied, pressing several kisses against John's temple. "At least this will give them something to talk _about_. I am aware that my face is on billboards for various products all over the UK, but if it were up to me, every last one of them would have a caption reading _I have Dr. John Watson and you don__'__t._"

John chuckled lightly, as if he thought Sherlock might be joking. "Yeah, right!"

Sherlock could not understand it. There was John, in all his shining _John_-ness_,_ but he was completely oblivious of how ruggedly good-looking he was. Or of how intelligent he was — not up to Sherlock's level, of course, but certainly not as moronic as most people. Or of how kind, loving, and giving. Sherlock was certain there would be no end in sight to John's extraordinary attributes as time went on. The man was infinitely amazing…and endearingly unaware of the fact.

Suddenly Sherlock remembered the look on Lestrade's face when he learned that John was moving into Sherlock's bedroom. Chances were he had already called Mycroft with the news. Sherlock looked around for any sign of CCTV cameras changing position or suspiciously slow-moving black vehicles with tinted windows.

John noticed Sherlock scouting out the area. "You look like your head's on a swivel, Sherlock. What's going on?"

"I should warn you, John — now that Greg knows about us, he'll tell Mycroft, who will not be able to resist inserting his porcine nose into our personal business. So whatever happens, do not get into any mysterious black cars, no matter how hard anyone tries to entice you."

John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about and just said, "Uh, okay." Then, a moment later, "Wait — who's Mycroft?"

"My brother. He and Lestrade have entered into a domestic partnership. And to think that I was responsible for bringing them together." Sherlock looked revolted at the thought. "Lestrade will already have called Mycroft and told him that you are moving in with me."

Before John could ask why that should be a problem, Sherlock's free arm shot out and a cab rather miraculously appeared out of nowhere, stopping directly in front of the two men. John stared in disbelief. That _never_ happened when _he_ wanted a cab.

John called out the address of his bedsit to the cabbie, and he and Sherlock settled into the back seat, shoulders and thighs touching. John set the empty boxes on the floor and took Sherlock's closest hand, twining their fingers together. He wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock's issue was with his brother learning they were moving in together, but it did remind him of something. He said, "You know, Sherlock, we still have to talk about my share of the rent."

"Don't worry about it, John," Sherlock replied airily.

"No, I have to pay my way," John insisted.

"Of course. I only meant that you will easily be able to afford it on your new salary."

John blinked a couple of times. He had not until that moment even wondered about potential wages. First he'd forgotten that he had originally come to Baker Street to interview for a job, and now this. _Nothing but Sherlock has mattered to me from the moment we met!_ "Speaking of my salary…"

"Oh, Baker Street Climbing Consultants shall pay you £18,000 for the season, exactly what Dr. Anstruther would have earned."

"Eighteen thousand pounds?" John was horrified. "Sherlock, no! According to Mike Stamford, that's the amount reserved for the most experienced high-altitude doctors. I'm going to end up feeling like a rent boy!"

"Oh, please, John! You understand all the basics, you'll have over four months to familiarise yourself with advanced techniques; and I don't know how many times I will need to say this before it sinks into that funny little brain of yours, but you were a surgeon in a combat zone. You think on your feet. You will decide what to do swiftly, and you will do it well. You are going to be an invaluable member of my team, and I am certain that once they become acquainted with you, even members of other expeditions will head straight to the BSCC medical tent when they get so much as a hangnail."

John stared at Sherlock open-mouthed. "You're serious?"

"I never joke, John," Sherlock replied rather primly. "Everyone will want to be near you. Like bees to pollen." _But they had better not get too close. Because you__'__re mine. _He lifted up his free hand and caressed John's cheek.

John's mobile chimed softly. He reluctantly shifted his body away from Sherlock's to fumble the phone out of his pocket. The caller ID displayed the telephone number of the surgery. "Dr. Watson," he said crisply.

He listened intently for a few moments then replied, "I'm sorry, I can't come in today." He listened a bit more, then, "No, I'm in the middle of something now, but I can come in tomorrow if you still need—"

Impatiently, Sherlock grabbed the mobile out of John's hand. "Actually, Dr. Watson will not be able to come in today _or_ tomorrow, because he is taking a sex break. He shall return on his next scheduled workday." And he disconnected the call.

"SHERLOCK!" John didn't know whether to laugh or get angry, and he suddenly had an inkling of what Lestrade meant about Sherlock being a handful.

"John, I cannot believe you apologised to those idiots for being unable to come in on your day off. You should be running the clinic rather than being on the receiving end of thoughtless last-minute demands," Sherlock fumed. "Those people are not fit to hand you a scalpel! They are morons who cannot possibly appreciate you."

"You've never even seen me apply so much as a sticking plaster, Sherlock. How can you know any of that?"

But Sherlock had already tuned John out while he minutely examined the mobile, which he still held in his hand. "Oh, now I understand…" he said slowly. "Your alcoholic brother is the reason you don't have any of your possessions from before you joined the army. He sold off whatever he could over time to pay for his drinking habit during his periods of unemployment."

John's jaw dropped. This was a feat of deductive logic far beyond any Sherlock had displayed the night before. "Sherlock, how…?"

Sherlock smiled at him. "This phone is engraved 'Harry Watson from Clara'. It is obviously a cast-off given to you by your brother for several reasons, the main one of which was so that you could keep in touch with him. Otherwise he would have just gotten rid of it entirely, since he left Clara."

"How did you…?

"If she had left him, he would have kept the phone. Sentiment. But he left her and wants no reminders."

"And the alcoholism?"

"Look at the power connection — scratches and scuff marks all around it. His hands shook uncontrollably every night when he went to plug it in."

"But the part about selling my things?"

"Well, that was a shot in the dark, but you have to admit it was a good one. You sounded a bit evasive when you told me that your possessions had all been pitched over the years. Why would you sound evasive? Well, if someone you cared about had sold your things for a less than noble reason, and you didn't want to dwell on it too closely, then perhaps…"

John stared at him, completely dazzled. "I don't think I'm ever going to get tired of you doing that. In fact, it's quite a turn-on."

Sherlock looked incredibly pleased with himself. "Really? So I got everything right?"

"Yes, almost everything spot on. It was absolutely brilliant."

But Sherlock frowned, having heard nothing past the word "almost."

"What part did I get wrong?"

"Harry is short for Harriet," John replied with a shrug.

Sherlock _tsked _impatiently at himself. "Sister, then. It's always something."

John shook his head in mock sympathy. "Well, don't worry; I promise I'll still respect you in the morning." Their eyes met and they struggled to keep their faces straight.

The cab pulled up to John's bedsit. Sherlock handed rather more cash than necessary to the cabbie and ordered him to wait. "We shan't be long," he said. The man looked down at the notes and said, "Take all the time you need, mate."

John's room was so grim, it tamped down the natural ebullience the men had been feeling all morning. They packed in silence. Most of John's clothes fit into one box. The remainder went into the other box, along with his RAMC mug, biros and pencils, a spiral-bound notebook, a razor and other remnants of his army issue wash kit, and (much to Sherlock's obvious amusement) a couple of apples. "Waste not, want not," John said firmly.

_Oh,_ Sherlock thought, delighted, _John is just perfect even when he__'__s spouting clich__é__s._

Next the doctor carefully tucked a pistol and several boxes of ammunition in among his clothes. "Don't really imagine it will bother you that I have this." (This earned him a _what-do-you-think?_ look in reply.) Finally John took his army dress uniform and an abysmally ugly brown corduroy suit out of the closet and carefully laid them both over the back of the desk chair. He set his laptop down on the chair seat.

One last check of the drawers and cabinets, and they were done. All told, it had taken them less than 15 minutes.

"This is the whole of it?" Sherlock asked, amazed.

"I left the army with everything I owned crammed into one duffel bag, and I even got rid of some of that afterwards," John replied. "I don't need much."

"Then let's head down to the front desk to turn in your key," Sherlock said with a sigh of relief, because once John returned the key, it would be official — he was Sherlock's. "This place is truly dismal."

"Yeah, I can't say I'll be sorry to leave it. I don't think I had a happy moment here."

A wicked glint appeared in Sherlock's eye. "Then I must insist we do something to give you better memories before you move out." He wrangled John onto the bed and started opening his flies.

"But the cab," John protested weakly.

"The cabbie said he'd wait," Sherlock reminded him.

**~~~/~~~**

John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street bickering gently. Greg, now sitting at the dining room table balancing the BSCC chequebook, could hear them clearly from the moment they walked in the front door.

"When I went to turn in the key, everyone in the management office seemed to know what we'd been doing." Dr. Watson's voice.

"Well, at least you have one happy memory of the place now, judging from that look of post-orgasmic bliss on your face." And that was Sherlock, sounding smug.

"I can't believe the cabbie asked me who she was, and if he could have her number."

"I am fairly certain that our behaviour in the backseat during the return trip disabused him of the notion that there was a woman anywhere in the mix."

As they crossed the threshold to 221B, Greg saw that John was now lugging two boxes filled with his possessions, and Sherlock was carrying a couple of suits on hangers and a laptop. Typical.

"Meanwhile you look as cool and collected as if you had just stepped off the pages of GQ!" the doctor said in disbelief.

"It's not my fault you dress like someone's father, in those rumpled jeans and ridiculously outdated jumpers." _How are you so adorable?_

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it. Somehow everyone we talked to seemed to know I'd just had sex, while you…"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Oi! Too much information, you two." The two men stopped short, noticing for the first time that they were not alone.

Greg looked at Dr. Watson and thought he really did look like he'd just had sex! His hair was sticking up a bit here and there, he had a slightly unfocused look in his eyes, and he was glowing with pleasure. But Sherlock — only his proud and possessive air gave him away. Well, that and the hint of canary feathers around his mouth. What was it going to be like working in close proximity to these two?

"By the way, Sherlock," Greg said, deciding not to worry about it for now, "remember that invoice we were looking for yesterday? Apparently it had never been filed in the first place. I found it down here when I was picking up those papers you scattered all over the floor last night."

Sherlock looked blank.

"The invoice we spent an hour looking for upstairs yesterday?" Greg prompted him.

"Oh, that. How very dull. Let's get you settled into our bedroom, John."

John threw Greg an apologetic look over his shoulder as he followed Sherlock down the hall.

"If you're going to shag again, shut the door!" Greg yelled after the two men.

"I suggest in future you acquire a good set of earplugs," Sherlock replied haughtily, then turned and smiled at John. "Just put the boxes on the bed while I empty out a drawer for your things. We shall have to obtain a chest of drawers for you, or possibly a good-sized armoire with drawers and closet space. Mrs. Hudson may already have something in the lumber room that we can use. I'll ask her later."

As Sherlock cleaned out a drawer, setting his own things on the top of the chest, John protested that he could easily keep his belongings in the boxes for now. But Sherlock waved aside that idea decisively. He didn't want John to feel like he was living out of boxes; he wanted him to feel at home. Then he made some space in the closet to hang up John's dress uniform and that corduroy travesty of a suit. John was very lucky that he looked adorable no matter what he was wearing — and even more adorable while being divested of what he was wearing, something that Sherlock had demonstrated to his own great satisfaction a little less than an hour ago.

Greg rose from the table as they came out of the bedroom. "I didn't have time to say anything earlier, Dr. Watson, but welcome to Baker Street Climbing Consultants."

"Thank you; but please call me John."

"Great, and I'm Greg."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this tedious display of manners and trivial small-talk.

"I hope we can find a little time shortly to sit down together and discuss my new position," John said to the expedition manager, "especially to give me an idea of what I'm going to be doing between now and the start of the expedition."

"Oh, that reminds me," Sherlock said in an offhand manner, "John will be getting Dr. Anstruther's salary."

Greg smiled stiffly. "Sherlock, can I speak with you upstairs for a minute?"

"Oh, very subtle, Lestrade," Sherlock scoffed. "And it's 'may I,' by the way. But you might as well know right now that anything you wish to say to me, may be said in John's presence as well." He put a hand on John's back.

"You know what, Sherlock?" John said awkwardly, "I should go to the shops to stock up the kitchen anyway, since there's nothing to eat in the flat except those apples I just brought back."

Sherlock said carelessly, "Why bother? We can eat out or do takeaway."

"Not for every meal," John protested. "That's a complete waste of money."

"John, you won't ever have to worry about money again. I have more than enough for both of us, plus you'll have your salary."

"That doesn't mean we have to piss it away," John said firmly. "Saving money is a good practice to get into, and we should also be putting money aside for a rainy day."

Sherlock smiled affectionately. _Could you be any more adorable?_ "Then take my card. There's a Tesco just a few blocks from here."

John shook his head. "That's fine; I have my own card." He turned to go, but Sherlock tugged him back and kissed him; then glared at Greg, as if daring him to say anything.

John grabbed his coat and headed down the stairs. He was barely to the bottom landing when he heard raised voices start up. He hurried out the front door, absolutely certain that he did not want to overhear whatever it was that Greg was about to say.

Up in 221B, Sherlock scowled at Greg. He was concerned and upset that John felt he had to leave the flat. And what if he didn't come back?

Greg started in immediately. "Eighteen thousand pounds, Sherlock? He can't be an experienced mountain physician, or I'd have heard of him."

"The salary amount is already in the budget for this coming season, Lestrade. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that I don't know what's going on with you, Mr. I-don't-do-relationships. You only met the man yesterday."

"I've never needed much time to know my own mind."

"Well, I hate to say this, Sherlock, but it looks to me like you're trying to buy his affection."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "You don't think he could possibly feel the same way about me as I do about him."

"That's not what I meant, Sherlock. It's just that your experience in these matters is quite limited."

"John is _absolutely nothing_ like Victor!" Sherlock protested indignantly.

"No, I can see that he's not."

"Then I ask again: what is the problem?"

"Well, for one thing, you don't believe in love, let alone love at first sight. You've said so often enough."

"That was before I met John. There was immediately something between us…it felt like electricity…."

"I only hope it didn't fry your circuits," Greg said.

"Oh, very droll, Lestrade. In any case, I feel as though my luck has turned, and now I'm wondering if this will be the season I finally catch Moriarty at his tricks. I feel that I can't fail at anything with John at my side."

Greg backed down, realising that there was no reasoning with Sherlock now. "All right, then; clearly you've put a great deal of thought into this. I just hope you're right about John."

"When am I ever wrong?" Sherlock asked smugly.

* * *

To readers unfamiliar with the term _lumber room_: it is an out-of-the-way room in a house where odds and ends, especially furniture, can be stored.


	6. The 38-Hour Anniversary

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going. Thanks to johnsarmylady for keeping it British, and for one particularly ace suggestion.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and PM'd me! I love hearing from you.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Possible trigger warning: This chapter contains a brief but unequivocal mention of unsafe sex.

Chapter Excerpt: "Hmm, you met him on Tuesday afternoon, spent Tuesday night with him, and moved in with him Wednesday morning. You have also accepted a job with him, and today is only Thursday." Mycroft's eyes flicked to the love bites on John's neck. "Might we expect a happy announcement by tomorrow?"

* * *

_Wednesday 14:00 to Thursday 12:00 noon_

John returned from the shops lugging bags and bags of groceries and was welcomed with almost frantic hugs and kisses at the threshold of their flat. He couldn't help feeling that it would have been altogether more useful, though admittedly not nearly as pleasurable, if Sherlock had met him downstairs at the front door in order to help him carry everything up. Nevertheless, he set the bags on the floor and returned Sherlock's greeting enthusiastically.

"Where's Greg?" he asked eventually, peering cautiously around Sherlock's slender body.

"I gave him the rest of today off and told him not to come in tomorrow, either. You'll be off work again, and I wish to spend the day alone with you." Sherlock clutched at John anxiously.

"Is something wrong, Sherlock?"

"Not now that you're back." Sherlock had never been so relieved to hear anyone coming up those seventeen steps.

"Look, Sherlock, if that salary is going to cause a problem…"

"It's not," Sherlock said shortly, still stinging somewhat from Lestrade's comment about buying John's affection. "The salary was already in the budget, and I have no doubt that you will earn it."

"Then what's going on? I can tell something's wrong — don't bother to deny it."

There was silence for a moment, then Sherlock admitted, "I was concerned that you might not wish to return."

"Where would you get that idea?" John asked, genuinely shocked.

"You clearly felt you had to leave the flat, and you wouldn't take my card to buy groceries…"

"No, Sherlock, I left to give you and Greg privacy to talk, and I didn't need your card because I have my own." John wondered how anyone who appeared as self-assured as Sherlock on the outside could be so lacking in confidence on the inside, at least when it came to relationship matters.

Sherlock shrugged. "In any case, I feel better now that you are back." As a sign of how relieved he was, he actually helped John carry the bags into the kitchen. Though he sincerely hoped John wouldn't expect it to happen again.

"I don't think the kitchen has seen this many groceries since before I moved in, John. What did you get?" Sherlock pulled items out of several of the bags curiously.

John joined Sherlock in removing items from the bags. "I bought as much high-quality protein as I thought I could carry by myself. We need to start feeding you up if you're going to gain 25 pounds between now and late March."

The perishables and frozen foods fit easily into the almost-empty refrigerator and the freezer compartment, but when John asked Sherlock where any of the boxes or tins should go on the shelves, he received a one-shouldered shrug. "Wherever you like, John. This is your home now, too." They looked soppily at each other for a moment.

"But what about the scientific equipment, and all those strange things in the cabinets?"

"Just push anything aside you need to."

John nodded and put everything on the lower shelves where they were easily within his reach, which made Sherlock smile. He walked over to John and wrapped his arms around him from behind, rubbing his cheek in John's short hair. "Perhaps I should put some of these groceries on the highest shelves, just so you'll need me to get them down for you."

Instinctively John understood what Sherlock was trying to say and he replied, "I'll need you for much more than that, believe me."

Sherlock pulled John out of the kitchen and onto the couch in the sitting room. They snogged happily for a while, but suddenly Sherlock said, "Oh!" He jumped up and ran to the dining room table, returning with a sheet of paper which he slapped triumphantly into John's hands. "There!"

"What's this then?"

"You were wondering earlier what you'd be doing between now and the time the expedition starts. After Lestrade went home, I worked up a daily training and study schedule for you."

The doctor ran his eyes down the timetable, biting his lip to keep from laughing at what he saw there, lest Sherlock think he was being made fun of. "You left something out, Sherlock."

Frowning, Sherlock took the schedule back and ran his eyes down it in turn. "I can't think what."

"You forgot about my current job — I work at least three days a week, and sometimes more if they need me."

Sherlock scowled. "But you're going to quit, because you have another job now."

"Of course, but I can't _just_ quit. I have to give notice."

"Why must you be so honorable?" asked Sherlock sulkily.

John chuckled. "You make that sound like it's a bad thing. I promise, Sherlock, I will give them a month's notice as soon as I walk in the door Friday morning."

Sherlock sighed. "An entire month — that long? I despise the thought of you working one more minute for people who take you for granted."

"I'm sure they'll find someone sooner than that. But it's only fair to allow them adequate time to replace me."

To John's surprise, Sherlock said fiercely, "No one could ever replace you. No one."

John looked at Sherlock's unhappy face and decided to distract him. "Well, let's look at this a bit more closely, shall we?" He pulled Sherlock onto his lap and they studied the list together.

**Training Schedule, month one (early November to early December)  
**06:00 — wake-up sex and/or shower sex  
07:00 — breakfast  
08:00 — practice at indoor rock wall training facility followed by up to 10-mile hike  
12:30 — shower sex  
13:00 — lunch  
14:00 — BSCC administrative work with Greg and Sherlock  
15:00 — sex break  
16:00 — study high-altitude medicine  
20:00 — dinner  
21:00 — crap telly, snogging on couch, etc.  
22:00 — bed/sex

Now grinning hugely, John asked, "Four to five times a day, every day?"

"We don't have to limit it to that," Sherlock said eagerly.

"Are you trying to kill me, Sherlock?" John mock-groaned.

"I definitely allowed for the refractory period of a man your age," Sherlock pointed out.

_The things Sherlock comes up with!_Stifling a laugh, John said drily, "Very thoughtful of you, Sherlock. But do you realize that you're acting like a virgin who has just discovered sex?"

Sherlock suddenly looked serious. "I will admit to you, John, that I did not have a clue what sex truly entailed until I met you."

John felt somewhat overwhelmed by that admission, and because he didn't know what to say in reply, he decided that some serious groping might cover all the talking points nicely. A few minutes later, though, Sherlock resumed the conversation.

"In any case, John, this is just the beginning. After following this schedule for a month, we are going to expand the physical activities greatly."

"Are you talking about the sex or the enforced hikes?" John asked, smirking into Sherlock's neck.

"Either. Both," Sherlock said. "This only covers the beginning of our training. In a month, we shall be spending at least three days a week on the hills and mountains in Scotland, the best training ground for climbing in the world."

"Don't misunderstand; I don't mind the training at all. But I thought I didn't need to know how to climb if I'm to be stationed at Base Camp?"

"I am not going to let the most important person in my life anywhere near Everest having no idea at all of what's involved with climbing," Sherlock said crisply. "About the only thing you can count on from any mountain is that something will go wrong. I shall make certain you know how to protect yourself just in case."

What Sherlock did not say, however, was that he felt sure John was going to want to do some climbing once he set foot on the mountain — he might even decide to attempt to summit. Because John was an adrenaline junkie. He hid it very well behind a mild manner and clothes that looked like they belonged to someone's father. But there was no way John Watson was going to find himself on Everest without wanting to climb it. He just didn't realise it yet.

John made them a very high-calorie, high-protein dinner, and while they were eating he asked again about all the scientific equipment in the kitchen. Sherlock said, "During my short time at university I read chemistry, and I still dabble from time to time. In fact, I developed a glacier cream that blocks the sun much more effectively than any commercial product available. But I've set that kind of thing aside for now, because since last season I've been attempting to prove that the leader of one of the cut-rate expeditions has been stealing supplies. In fact, I was rather hoping you might help me with this."

John's eyes sparkled. He said, "Tell me more."

"Every year increasing numbers of under-equipped climbers show up on Everest. I believe that is because there is a black market going on in stolen supplies right on the mountain. Why bring anything with you when you can buy or steal what you need once you get there? Most responsible Everest expeditions have turned away clients who didn't have the necessary equipment or money to join, only to have those same people show up on the mountain anyway as part of an expedition run by some agency operating on a shoestring. The next thing you know, those climbers are using your tents at the high camps — eating the food stored there, stealing the oxygen bottles left there, endangering the people legitimately entitled to those supplies, whose very lives may depend on finding food or oxygen there when it is needed most desperately."

"And you suspect one particular expedition leader?"

"There are certainly individual rogue climbers who also do it, but I believe a man named James Moriarty is at the center of an organised ring. He runs a no-frills company called Moriarty Mountain Expeditions. The problem is that no one has ever been able to catch him or any of his henchmen at it. There is no such thing as mountain police in the Himalayas, but if we could prove that Moriarty is personally to blame for wantonly endangering lives, I believe the Nepalese government would declare him _persona non grata_ and cease granting him climbing permits."

After dinner Sherlock watched transfixed while John cleared the table, did the dishes, and cleaned up the kitchen. "You don't have a broken arm, do you?" John asked eventually. "Because if you do, I'd be happy to set it for you. I am a doctor, you know."

With a little shake of his head Sherlock said, "I'm sorry, John. I was just thinking how wonderfully domestic this is. I never thought the idea would appeal to me, but seeing you here, cooking and cleaning for the two of us in the flat, I was imagining seeing you like this for…for a very long time to come." Sherlock had barely managed to stop himself from blurting out "for the rest of our lives." He wasn't positive, but he suspected that 24 hours might be considered too soon to bring up marriage.

John realised he was being manipulated more than a little over the cooking and the cleaning, but after that comment he almost didn't care. He took Sherlock by the hand and led him to the couch, where they settled down once again for a good snog. Sherlock slipped a hand under John's shirt and ran his fingers very gently from John's firm chest down to his abdomen, which was just starting to lose definition now that he was no longer in the army. Well, Sherlock didn't care that much about such things, but once he and John started rock-wall climbing together, the doctor was going end up with a set of very nicely defined abs. He wondered if it would feel better to press his body against rock-hard muscles or soft, yielding ones? No matter; as long as it was John, just John, it would be perfect either way.

For a while there was no sound in the flat except for kisses and sighs. Then John opened his legs a bit and Sherlock slipped between them. John cupped his hands on Sherlock's arse and rocked their erections together. "Oh God, this is amazing," Sherlock moaned as he sucked enthusiastically at John's neck. "And to think I never wanted to do anything of this sort."

"You've never done this before?"

"I never saw any reason for it until now."

John asked unthinkingly, "Not even with Victor?"

Everything came to a stop. Sherlock lifted his mouth off John's neck. "Who told you about Victor?" Sherlock demanded.

"No one," John stammered, "I-I mean, Lestrade mentioned his name to me. He said you hadn't spent the night with anyone since Victor. That's all."

"If Lestrade were not my brother-in-law…" Sherlock said, sounding exasperated. "John, I promise I will tell you about Victor eventually. But certainly not while we're embarked on this fascinating exploratory expedition." Then he put a hand behind John's head and pushed their mouths together.

John went back to snogging Sherlock but this time it took him a while to lose himself in the feeling. They hadn't known each other for much longer than 24 hours, and they hadn't had time to talk about either of their pasts. But apparently Sherlock had been in only one relationship up until now, and John was very curious about it — especially as to how and why it had ended.

**~~~/~~~**

The next morning John awakened before Sherlock once again. He watched Sherlock sleep for a bit, and debated with himself for maybe three seconds whether or not to wake him for sex. The "ayes" won handily. Afterwards Sherlock went back to sleep but John, even in his state of boneless contentment, was aware of a growing bladder pressure. He passed the bathroom mirror on the way to use the toilet and saw that Sherlock had given him love bites halfway up his neck the night before. He was never going to be able to cover them all up with his shirt collar when he went back to work the next day. A grown man with love bites! Embarrassing. But wonderful, considering the source. Then suddenly he was wide awake.

Sherlock slept on while John showered and dressed. The mountaineer certainly did not appear to be a morning person, and John wondered if they were actually going to be able to stick to the training schedule if it meant rising early every morning. (He left for later the question of whether or not it was even possible for them to have sex, then four hours of strenuous exercise, and then more sex. And then even more sex.) He made a quick breakfast and while eating, googled "how to cover up love bites," grinning from ear to ear at the thought of how crazy his life had become since meeting Sherlock. He did a quick check of cosmetic products and decided as long as he was thinking about it, he might as well run out to the shops to buy some coverup. He left a note for Sherlock taped to the bathroom mirror to assure his sleeping beauty that he would return shortly. He underlined "I will be back" twice.

John was returning to 221B with a little plastic pot of concealer when a sleek black car pulled up beside him and paced him for too long to be a coincidence. He tried to ignore it, but soon a tinted rear window whirred down and a head poked out.

"John, I wish to speak with you," drawled a plummy voice. John took an instant dislike to the smug intonation.

_So__…__this must be the infamous Mycroft, then._ "Sorry, my new flatmate warned me never to get into mysterious black cars with strangers." He kept walking. The car continued to roll along next to him.

"Get in the car, please, John."

It didn't sound at all like a request. John ignored it.

"Very well." The car pulled up to the kerb. A tall and very posh man emerged and joined John on the pavement. His bespoke suit smelled to John like pinstriped money and he was carrying an umbrella, of all the ridiculous affectations. John put on some speed, but the man easily caught up and matched his steps to John's. "Now, John, don't be stubborn. There is a very nice coffee shop just around the corner. Let us enter it, order beverages, and discuss this like civilized people."

"Discuss what? I don't know you, and I can't imagine what we could possibly have to talk about."

"Do not be obtuse, John. Sherlock Holmes, of course."

John kept walking, although he did turn his head to look more closely at the man.

"What about Sherlock Holmes?"

"Hmm, you met him on Tuesday afternoon, spent Tuesday night with him, and moved in with him Wednesday morning. You have also accepted a job with him, and today is only Thursday." Mycroft's eyes flicked to the love bites on John's neck. "Might we expect a happy announcement by tomorrow?"

"That could be rushing things a bit, but why not?" John said cheerfully, ignoring the supercilious lift of the man's right eyebrow.

At the coffee shop, Mycroft ordered them coffee (one black, no sugar and one double cream, three sugars) and they sat at a table by the front window, through which John could see the black car idling conspicuously in a no-parking zone directly outside.

"As I am sure you have already surmised, I am Mycroft Holmes," the man announced pompously.

John nodded and took a sip of his coffee. "So I gathered." There was clearly no reason whatsoever for him to reciprocate the introduction.

"Let me come directly to the point, John: what is your interest in my brother?"

John didn't have to think about that one. "Well, he's brilliant and he's gorgeous."

"He is also wealthy and famous," Mycroft said in insinuating tones.

"And extremely good in bed," John replied. The whole situation was so surreal that he felt absolutely no reason to censor his words.

"I must say, you are quite different from the type my brother is normally attracted to." Mycroft did not sound complimentary. "They have invariably been tall and very handsome."

"And all one-night stands," John pointed out.

"But for one, John," Mycroft corrected him.

John took another sip of his coffee. "Did Victor leave because you paid him a similar visit?"

"No, Victor took care of leaving all on his own, and quite efficiently as well." Was that a malicious glint in Mycroft's eye? _What a prat._

"But I admit, John, now that you have referenced Victor's name, I am astonished that Sherlock has even told you about him, all things considered."

John remained silent. Mycroft observed him closely. "You do not lie well by silence, John. I already know that Gregory mentioned him to you, and now I see that Sherlock did not, at least not of his own choice."

"He said he wasn't ready to talk about it yet," John replied through gritted teeth. The appealing vision of a cup of hot coffee overturned in Mycroft's lap popped into John's mind.

"Do you wonder what else Sherlock has not been ready to tell you yet?" Mycroft sailed on. "For instance, he was addicted to intravenous drugs for a good many years. I do hope you have been using condoms."

They had not been. Neither man could stand being physically separated by even that scant millimeter of pliant material. Mycroft read the answer in John's defiant eyes.

"I suspected as much. Happily for you, his blood tests have always come back clean. But you see my point. He did not bother to tell you about his drug use ahead of time."

"He would have told me if he had not tested clean," said John firmly, now wondering if there might be a way to arrange for both of their coffees to spill in Mycroft's lap.

"You're very loyal, very fast."

"Yeah, is there a point to this?" What John really wanted to do was get up and walk out (after telling Mycroft to go fuck himself) but he was uncomfortably aware that he was going to be working with both the brother and the husband of this man, and that didn't seem the best way to start out his new job — his new _life_, in fact.

"Since I am unable to discourage you, perhaps it would be possible to enlist your aid. Gregory tells me that you appear to have a great deal of influence over my brother. And of course, I would make it very much worth your while."

John's eyebrows rose in disbelief at Mycroft's temerity.

"My brother is very special, John. He is arguably the most talented mountaineer in Great Britain today. I've been trying to convince him to join the Alpine Club expeditions and climb for England, but he insists on running that ridiculous little business."

Although John had heard nothing about this before, he certainly could understand perfectly why Sherlock didn't want anything to do with his brother. "What you mean is that he prefers to remain independent of you by running a highly successful commercial expedition."

Annoyance leaked out of Mycroft's every pore. "I am the President of the British Alpine Association. It looks very bad that I cannot convince my younger brother to climb for Queen and Country."

"Because of course everything is about you," John said drily.

"Everything Sherlock does reflects upon me, yes," Mycroft replied stiffly.

"And you want me to convince him to close down his business in order to climb for your organization? That's not going to happen. Right, this is a waste of both our time. But thanks for the coffee, mate." John stood, turned his back very deliberately on Mycroft, and headed to the door.

Faster than John would have believed possible, Mycroft was at his side, holding him by the arm. "You have no idea who I am, or what I can do," Mycroft said quietly into the doctor's ear. "I know that you were actually discharged because the intermittent tremor in your dominant hand interfered with your ability to be a surgeon. But I see no sign of that now, _Captain_. I could get you reinstated with the RAMC if that is your wish — or even if it is not…."

John stared up at Mycroft in disbelief. "I'm leaving now; let go of my arm."

"You don't seem very frightened." Mycroft's hand tightened even more.

"Why would I be frightened? We both care for Sherlock — it's just that we each think something different would be better for him."

Mycroft changed course yet again. "I should warn you that my brother does not do relationships."

"He's doing fine as far as I'm concerned," John said, trying to extricate himself from Mycroft's grip. But Mycroft wasn't done yet.

"It's early days, yet. He'll get tired this caring lark," Mycroft warned.

"I'll worry about that when or if it happens," John replied, and as soon as Mycroft released his arm, he exited the coffee shop, wishing he'd done so sooner — or even better, that he had never entered it in the first place.

He walked back home lost in thought. Until the day he met Sherlock, he would have given anything to be reinstated in the RAMC. Now, of course, it was the furthest thing from his mind.

He climbed the stairs to 221B slowly. Sherlock was awake and pacing the floor waiting for him to return. The minute the doctor walked into the flat, Sherlock demanded, "What's wrong? I can tell something's wrong by the way you came up the steps."

"I met somebody," John said.

Sherlock turned pale. _Already? John has found someone else already? _"I knew it. I knew I'd never be able to hold onto you."

John hastened to reassure him. He double-timed his way across the room and pulled Sherlock into his arms. "I didn't mean I met somebody _else;_ I meant, I met your brother, Mycroft."

"I told you not to get in the car!" Sherlock pulled away, looking distressed.

"I didn't get in the car! He got _out_ of the car. We walked to a nearby coffee shop he knew of, and we had a…a chat over coffee." John tugged Sherlock toward the couch and they sat down together.

"He came for you himself? You had coffee together?" Mycroft always sent minions to bring his victims to him, and he certainly never offered them coffee. There was obviously something so special about John that even Mycroft could not help but feel it.

"Sherlock, why does your brother think he can get me reinstated in the RAMC?" John asked curiously.

"That utter _bastard_. Don't worry, John; he will not do that, not if he ever wishes me to speak to him again in this lifetime."

"But why does he even think he can?" John persisted.

"Mycroft can arrange almost anything he puts his mind to," replied Sherlock grimly.

"How is that possible?"

"Because for all practical purposes, Mycroft runs the British government single-handedly, although he tells everyone he occupies a minor position only."

"He told _me_ he was the president of the British Alpine Club."

"President of the Alpine Club is an honorary position that Mycroft got himself elected to purely in order to annoy me. Now tell me everything, John."

John did. When he was done, Sherlock said, "I can't believe you are still willing to be here with me after that brazen display of Mycroft's arrogance."

John pulled Sherlock even closer. "I'm here with you until you tell me you don't want me anymore. However, I would like to know more about the drug use when you're ready to discuss it."

Sherlock found himself unable to meet John's eye. "I am aware that I should have told you about the drugs, John, but I knew I was clean and I wanted you so badly." _And I wanted to see that awed look in your eyes just a little bit longer._

"You trusted that I was clean, too, remember. We're not a couple of kids — it was right for us. I can still recall perfectly how I felt that first time. I think I would have died if I couldn't touch and taste you everywhere."

_Amazing John!_ Sherlock felt chills running up and down his spine, and he said hoarsely, "I think I'm starting to feel that way myself right now."

"Well, Sherlock, it _is_ the…" John checked his watch… "hmmm, 38th-hour anniversary of our first time, near enough. I think we should celebrate." He took Sherlock by the hand and led him to the bedroom.

Even though Greg was not in the flat, they closed the door firmly behind themselves to get into the habit.


	7. The Great Love Bite Cover Up

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going, and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and PM'd me! I love hearing from you. Thank you, Sendai, for the inspiration.

Keep an eye open for the line right out of "The Sign of Four" about Sherlock's drug use.

* * *

Chapter Summary: _One method of getting loved ones to look more fondly on your climbing is to tell them that since you've started climbing you hardly do drugs anymore. __— __David Harris_

John learns about Sherlock's druggie background.

* * *

_Thursday 13:00 to Friday 13:00_

They were both hungry when they woke up an hour later. John had at least made himself a quick breakfast early that morning, but Sherlock had eaten nothing all day.

The doctor noted that they weren't off to the best start trying to get Sherlock up to his optimal climbing weight. "Let's get some food in you," he said, and was heading to the kitchen when Sherlock stopped him. "It would be somewhat in keeping with celebrating our first time were we to go to Angelo's. Moreover, it's my favourite restaurant, and not simply because Angelo never charges me a penny."

Angelo greeted them at the door and made a big fuss over what he called "the happy couple." Even though he led them to a seat next to the window and it was broad daylight, he insisted on bringing a candle to their table. The very act reminded John that when Angelo came to 221B to deliver their dinner personally (_was it really only 2 days ago_?), he had mentioned something about Sherlock saving his brother's life on a climb. While they waited for their meal, John tried to coax Sherlock into telling the story.

"It was really nothing, John," said Sherlock with uncharacteristic modesty. "Angelo's brother hurt himself climbing the Dru in the French Alps and was unable to descend under his own power. I went up with Greg and we helped bring him down."

Just then Angelo walked by. Overhearing Sherlock's truncated version, the restauranteur insisted on sitting down in order to tell John the story "properly." He gestured expressively as he talked. The waiters and waitresses cut a wide swath around the table except when they had to deliver John and Sherlock's meals — then they approached the table from the side opposite their boss.

"My brother Carlino and his girlfriend Daniella got themselves trapped on the West Face of the Dru while attempting to summit. They were already two-thirds of the way there when conditions up high turned very poor due to iced rock and a strong wind. They tried every technique they knew to get down, but the ice was too severe at their altitude. There were no footholds, no handholds, and their ice axes could barely make a dent in the thick ice. They were forced to spend the night in the open, and the next morning they had to face the fact that they were not going to be able to get down no matter what. So rather than stay in one place and freeze, they tried to shoot for the top. That was when my brother fell. He was badly hurt, and he lost his ice axe besides.

"The gendarmes, the mountain troops and the guides all tried to get to them, but the ice was just too thick. It was very dangerous work, and three rescuers even died in the attempt! Eventually a cable was lowered from above, but Carlino and Dani were sheltering beneath a large outcrop of rock which made the cable hang too far out for them to be able to reach it.

"There were several hundred people involved in the rescue attempts, for all the good they did. Carlino and Dani were stuck there for a week because nobody could figure out what to do. All the rescuers were focused on approaching them from above or directly from the side. Then Sherlock came up with a fantastic plan! He decided to go directly up the West Face, something considered so crazy no one else had even considered it. He asked his climbing partner to help him.

"His idea was simply brilliant. They climbed straight up the West Face and fixed ropes to the mountain on the way, but instead of taking up the ropes behind them as they went, they left them in place to aid in the descent. It took them two days to get to the ledge. By that time Carlino and Dani had been stuck there for nine days. Nine days! It turned out that my brother had broken his shoulder in the fall. Even if the ice had melted entirely, he still wouldn't have been able to get down with only the help of his girlfriend."

John had been so fascinated by the story that he forgot to eat. By the time Angelo wound up the tale, Sherlock had finished his own meal and half of John's. But John didn't mind. He looked at Sherlock wonderstruck, and as much as Sherlock was thrilled with John's admiration, he felt the need to point out that Greg Lestrade had been involved as well. "We just happened to be there, waiting for the weather at higher altitudes to clear up in order to make our own summit bid, and when I asked Greg if he'd be willing to try the rescue, he agreed at once. It was not something I could have accomplished on my own, and Greg was risking his life as much as I was risking mine."

Angelo snorted. "Sherlock was the only one to come up with the idea, and he carried it out successfully. I will never be able to thank him enough. And now here he is with a boyfriend! I couldn't be happier for you both…have some dessert. Also on the house, of course."

Talking about the incident on the Dru had started Sherlock thinking about John's training schedule. On the way back to 221B he slipped an arm though John's and reached down for his hand. "I hate the thought that we might have to delay your training for a month," he said.

"I don't think it will be anywhere near that long, Sherlock, but in the meantime we can follow your training schedule on the days I'm not working. On the days I do work, I can still set aside time in the evenings to study; I just have to call Mike and ask him for a list of recommended books and journals. I'll get my next week's schedule from the clinic when I go in tomorrow, and we can plan around that. But we can start tonight by snogging on the couch from 2100 to 2200 hours," John finished up with a wink.

Sherlock stopped walking and kissed John eagerly. "Do we really have to wait that long?" he asked, smiling impishly.

They got home and as soon as their coats and scarves came off, they headed to the couch. John lay down and pulled Sherlock on top of him. "You're so amazing," he murmured, running his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls. "I can't begin to comprehend why anyone so talented and brilliant would ever have felt the need to do drugs. Sherlock, would you please tell me about it?"

"But it's completely in the past, John. I've hardly taken so much as a paracetamol since I got out of rehab almost 10 years ago, and then only when I was injured climbing."

"I believe you, but I still want to know how it happened."

Sherlock looked into John's deep, compassionate eyes. _If I tell you, will you be disgusted? Will this be the day you realise you made a mistake and leave me?_ Feeling very much as if he were about to fall down the side of a mountain on purpose, he told John the story.

"I was always very bored in school; it was no challenge to me scholastically, and I had no friends — adults and children alike considered me a freak because I could deduce everything about them on sight. Then, near the end of sixth form, I discovered cocaine. At first I only used it to keep my brain engaged, and then, although I denied it strenuously, I became addicted. I found it so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action was a matter of small moment. Although I had been accepted to uni, I decided not to go. I lived rough for a few years with all that that entails, and I'm not proud of many of the things I did during that time. Then, after one especially serious overdose, Mycroft dragged me off the streets and forced me into rehab. I resented him for it, but as I detoxed, I came to understand that I resented being a slave to the habit even more. So that was it – I gave up the drugs.

"Despite my assurances that I was through — something Mycroft had heard from me more than once before, by the way — my brother hired a companion to stay with me and keep me clean from the minute I came out of rehab. He went right to the top to find someone I would not be able to fool easily: Greg Lestrade, a detective sergeant on the Met's drug squad. Lestrade had arrested me more than once, which is how he and my brother met — something for which I shall forever blame myself. Mycroft lured Greg away from the Met with a salary most police detectives could only dream of…and maybe even with promises of sex, for all I know," he speculated, looking appalled at the possibility.

"Mycroft rented a flat on Montague Street, not too far from here. Greg and I moved in, and at first he kept an eye on me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It so happened that he was a weekend climber. He practically had to drag me along the first time he went climbing after moving in with me, but as soon as I saw what it was like, I all but begged him to teach me.

"Let me assure you, it is not possible to be bored while climbing, when many times your next hand- or foothold might give way and you could die. It focuses the mind marvelously. Lestrade taught me everything he knew, and it was not long before I was the better climber. I had been clean for over a year when Mycroft used his influence to get me into uni, but after only two years I dropped out to climb full-time. Mycroft was not best pleased, but he saw that climbing was keeping me clean. And Greg loved it because instead of climbing only on weekends or school holidays, we climbed constantly. I came to the notice of sports magazines, I picked up sponsors…well, you already know about that part. Eventually Mycroft decided it was safe to let me live on my own. Greg and Mycroft got married, or more accurately, entered into a domestic partnership. Greg never went back to the Met, but kept climbing with me. I moved here to Baker Street, started my own company, and Greg became my expedition manager."Sherlock looked at John to see how he was taking it. All he saw was tenderness and a boundless empathy…and the very best part of it all was that _John was still here_.

As for John, his heart went out to the boy with the great brain but no friends. He stroked Sherlock's hair gently and murmured, "You're absolutely astonishing, Sherlock. Addiction runs in my family and I know it's not just anyone who can simply decide to break a drug habit and do it.I admire you more than I can say."The tension drained completely out of Sherlock's body and he fell sound asleep lying in John's arms, his head tucked under John's chin.

John stared at the ceiling and marveled at the way things were working out for the two of them. That someone as amazing as Sherlock would feel so strongly about John Watson — short, stocky, tossed aside as useless by the army — that he would just hand him his heart without any hesitation was like something out of a dream. John was beginning to realise how very lucky he was that Sherlock routinely made snap decisions about people and never second-guessed himself. So for at least a little while longer, John was going to have an unbelievably clever, gorgeous boyfriend. If he lived through the part where Sherlock got tired of him (and damn Mycroft for putting that thought in John's head), maybe someday he would look back on this and reflect upon how lucky he had been, if only for a short time.

Eventually he, too, drifted off.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed quietly. John made them dinner, and then from 21:00 to 22:00 per Sherlock's timetable, they snogged in front of something on the telly that might actually have been quite interesting, but they didn't see a minute of it so who's to say. At 22:00 they went to bed — but not to sleep.

**~~~/~~~**

Sherlock groaned when the alarm went off the next morning and made more unhappy noises when John rolled out of the bed, taking his warmth away with him. John looked down at Sherlock and smirked. "Frankly," he said, "I don't believe you are even capable of getting up early."

"You'll see as soon as we start training," Sherlock yawned. He opened one eye and squinted at John. "Mmmm, those love bites look even more impressive this morning," he said proudly. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.

After his shower John sat down on the toilet seat to look at the instructions that came with the concealer he'd purchased the day before. The pot contained three separate shades of coverup cream and a small sponge for blending. He followed the instructions to the letter, decided he'd done a reasonably good job for somebody who didn't have the faintest idea what he was doing, dressed and had breakfast. Despite the fact that he wasn't looking forward to giving notice, John did not remember ever feeling so positive about showing up for this job. He had a real purpose in life again, and even checking out runny noses and hemorrhoids was going to be bearable for the short run.

He was a bit surprised to be met at the entrance to the clinic by the administrative manager, who walked him back to her office. There she informed him that the senior staff were not at all pleased that he had hung up when they called to ask him to come in on his day off. John did not bother to point out that it was actually Sherlock who had done so; he knew that was no excuse. He himself had not called back to apologize or offer to come in the next day anyway.

The manager reminded John that as one of the most junior members of the staff, it was part of his job description to fill in at the last minute if necessary. (And indeed, when John accepted the position, he'd had no life to speak of and therefore no problem with the idea at all.) Then she told him that there was a locum working in his place already, so he was no longer needed.

"We'll mail your final cheque," the manager said. "I'm really sorry, John. You just weren't a good fit here." Within half an hour of arriving at work, John found himself back out on the street, scratching his head in bemusement. "This should make Sherlock happy," he thought, although he himself was embarrassed about having been let go. Then it occurred to him that from now on he was going to be able to spend almost every minute of every day with Sherlock, and suddenly he didn't care all that much that he had been dismissed. If there was going to be some kind of problem in future over his work record, he would deal with it then.

When John got back to the flat, he was greeted by the expedition manager, who was sitting at the dining room table, notes spread out from one end to the other, working on some preliminary calculations involving the shipping of all of BSCC's expedition equipment, food and supplies to Nepal in mid-to-late March.

"Hi, John. Sherlock had to run out, but he'll back soon, I'm sure."

"He went out? He was sound asleep when I left, and it didn't look to me like anything could pry him out of that bed."

"Oh, the pathologist at Barts invited him to have a look at a dead body with a strange pattern of broken bones. She calls him whenever anything interesting turns up and also lets him use the morgue's lab equipment when he needs to. Sherlock has her twisted around his little finger."

"Dead body? Morgue?"

"Sherlock has always been interested in crime and odd methods of murder. He's actually been invited to help assist the police more than once, thanks to his connection to me. You know, with the ability he has to deduce just about anything he puts his mind to, the world lost a great detective when he decided to become a mountaineer."

John stood there, digesting this for a minute.

"Now before we go any further, John, I'd like to apologize for the way I acted when I found out what Sherlock was planning to pay you. He took me by surprise, but it was unprofessional of me to let you see that. And I should tell you right now, it's really not a problem."

John was relieved. "Thanks, Greg, that's good to hear. Sherlock told me the same thing, but there was always the possibility that he was just saying that to make me feel better."

Greg smiled. John obviously had no idea yet how unlikely was the idea of Sherlock saying anything just to make somebody feel better. "We're good then, John. And this looks like our chance to have that talk about the expedition and your role in it."

Greg invited John up for his first look at the office. Two desks were crammed into the small room, along with some filing cabinets. It wasn't hard to tell which desk was Sherlock's, because that one was piled high with books, papers, and miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam, while Greg's was quite well organized. There were many coils of brightly-colored climbing rope stashed in a corner and a couple of what looked like pickaxes to John. There were oxygen canisters and masks and plenty of empty boxes strewn around. And here on the walls at last were all the pictures of the mountaineer that John had originally expected to find downstairs. But instead of poses with famous figures, they were almost all spontaneous shots of an extremely scruffy-looking Sherlock on the summits of various mountains, a huge grin on his face in each photo, eyes sparkling so brightly that you could see the triumph and joy even through his protective goggles. John could not wait to see Sherlock looking like that!

Greg explained that as expedition manager, his job included handling correspondence and finances, food and equipment lists and purchases — tents, food, medicine, radios, oxygen canisters, GPS locators, batteries and so on. "Of course, you and I will work closely together ordering medical supplies. You tell me what you need, and I will order it. And don't worry, because Dr. Anstruther prepared a list for me long before he withdrew. So for this coming season, you can just look over what Anstruther did and add to it if you think necessary."

"Why did the doctor pull out?" John asked curiously. "It didn't have anything to do with Sherlock, did it?"

"For once, no. Anstruther's wife suddenly found out she was pregnant with their first child. It was a surprise pregnancy; the Anstruthers are an older couple, and Anstruther didn't want to leave her alone for two months."

"Huh." John marveled at the way things worked out. _What if this opportunity had not presented itself?_…No, he wasn't going to go there. He was never going to go there.

"By the way, I know Mycroft paid you a visit yesterday," Greg said. "I hope he wasn't too overbearing. He can be."

"Erm…" John had no idea how to answer that.

"You stood up to him well; he was impressed. And I'm happy because now I only have one Holmes to worry about. You can take over the other one with Mycroft's blessings."

"He didn't seem impressed to me."

"He's very pleased by the way you kept your head no matter what he threw at you. He thinks you'll be good for Sherlock. Sherlock can be…flighty. Mycroft feels you'll be a positive influence there — you clearly have your feet planted firmly on the ground. Mycroft also thinks that for someone with as little relationship experience as Sherlock has, he got it right first time choosing a partner."

"Second time, surely."

"No…I assure you, John, Sherlock never felt about Victor the way he feels about you."

"So Sherlock left Victor? But I thought Mycroft said…"

"Sherlock still hasn't told you? Sorry, mate. It's his story to tell."

John was torn between frustration over his inability to learn anything about Victor and a feeling of deep satisfaction because everyone was able to see that he and Sherlock had something very special going on between them.

"Anyway, John, I have some paperwork for you to fill out. Here. Sign these." Greg handed John a sheaf of papers.

Assuming it was paperwork for employment purposes, John picked up the first paper and then frowned. "This is a form giving me the legal authority to make decisions for Sherlock in case he becomes incapacitated."

"Yes, there are two of those: yours over Sherlock, and Sherlock's over you. Sherlock has signed them both, and all that is needed now is your signature."

John said, "And it's really all right with Mycroft for Sherlock to grant the authority to make medical decisions to someone he has known for barely four days?"

"This is not quite as odd as it may seem, John. At some point Sherlock intends for the two of you to be training together in Scotland at least three days a week, if not more. In case of an accident, you'll be there, and Mycroft and I will be many hundreds of miles away. Before you came along, I had that authority for Sherlock because we were climbing partners. Sherlock will still have that authority over me for Everest."

Greg indicated where John should sign, and John obediently did so. Then he moved on to the next set of papers, which indeed turned out to be the paperwork for employment purposes that he had expected to see at first.

After that was taken care of, Greg said, "Sherlock wants you to be a signatory on the business account and his personal and trust accounts as well, so some time soon the two of you should go to the bank to take care of that."

John was truly shocked. "I want you to know that I had no idea he was going to do that."

"I do know. Sherlock very accurately predicted the way you would react. But he is adamant. And once Sherlock makes up his mind about something…" Then Greg smirked. "I saw the training schedule he worked out for you, and I noticed that after the shower sex and the lunch break, there's a time slot where you can take care of the bank business." John laughed, although he felt the tips of his ears burning.

Both men became aware at the same time of the sound of violin music coming from downstairs. "Sherlock must be back," Greg said, "and taking the opportunity to play the violin, which he hasn't done since he met you."

"That's Sherlock? It's beautiful. I thought it must be a CD."

"Sherlock is actually a concert-level violinist," Greg said, but he was talking to an empty room, because John was already downstairs standing in the open doorway watching Sherlock engrossed in the music. Sherlock turned around, faltered just a bit when he saw John, then smiled and kept going. When the piece was done, John breathed, "I didn't know you could play the violin. That was absolutely beautiful."

"I'm very pleased you liked it. I wrote it." John was astounded. Was there anything this man could not do?

Sherlock put the violin and bow back in the instrument case, then looked closely at John and frowned. "Where did my love bites go?" he demanded.

"I had to cover them," John explained. "I couldn't show up at the clinic like that."

"But you're not at the clinic now," Sherlock replied tartly and dashed into the kitchen. In a moment he returned with a dampened towel and wiped away the makeup, revealing the love bites in all their red, blue and purple glory. "There, that's better," he said with satisfaction. "Now anyone who sees us together will know that you're mine. And speaking of the clinic…what are you doing home so early?"

"Well, Sherlock, it seems I've been let go for good."

"I can't say I'm sorry," Sherlock replied, but his tone was tentative, because John didn't look or sound as pleased as Sherlock hoped he might.

"I can't say I'm sorry, either, except I'm a bit uncomfortable about having that on my work record when I need to find a new clinic once the expedition is over. But I figure I'll cross that bridge when I get to it."

"When the expedition is over, you will still be with BSCC just as Greg and I are. You won't need another job."

John, who had never even once considered such a possibility, was speechless. Sherlock took advantage of that fact to kiss him senseless and add a new bruise or two to his neck. After that, they went out to buy John rock-climbing shoes for the rock wall sessions, and hiking boots and climbing boots as well, to give him plenty of time to get his footwear well broken in before they left for Everest in late March. Then they stopped by BHS and John bought two new pairs of jeans, some flannel shirts and yet another drab jumper. Sherlock rolled his eyes, while already imagining pulling it all off him in the days to come. On the way back to 221B they stopped at the bank and added John to all of Sherlock's accounts, business and personal.

Wherever they went, Sherlock did his best to make sure that everyone noticed John's love bites, and John came to the sudden realisation that he didn't mind one bit. He binned the little pot of concealer when they got back home.

* * *

The story of Sherlock's rescue of Angelo's brother is based on an incident from the classic mountain-climbing/spy/mystery novel _The Eiger Sanction_.

For non-British readers: BHS stands for British Home Stores


	8. Uphill Climb, Part One

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going, and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

Blatant plug: If you like this story, tell all your friends! And let me know, too — all reviews gratefully received.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Or the Michelin Man (Mr. Bibendium to European readers), even though I do mention him briefly in this chapter.

Simethicone oral — Simethicone is used to relieve the painful symptoms of too much gas in the stomach and intestines. It is the active ingredient in most over-the-counter anti-gas products.

See end note for NEW POSTING SCHEDULE.

* * *

Chapter Excerpt: The time flew by sweetly. That was the only word John could think to use for it. Since arriving at Baker Street he had found everything he'd ever wanted in life: love, companionship, adventure, and the opportunity to once again practice truly challenging medicine — all wrapped up in the amazing person of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**Training Schedule, month one (early November to early December)  
**06:00 — wake-up sex and/or shower sex  
07:00 — breakfast  
08:00 — practice at indoor rock wall training facility followed by up to 10-mile hike  
12:30 — shower sex  
13:00 — lunch  
14:00 — BSCC administrative work with Greg and Sherlock  
15:00 — sex break  
16:00 — study high-altitude medicine  
20:00 — dinner  
21:00 — crap telly, snogging on couch, etc.  
22:00 — bed/sex

Sherlock had briefly considered waiting until the following Monday to start their training. The idea of spending the entire weekend in bed with John was quite attractive. But it was essential to teach him to climb as soon as possible, because John had slowly been losing conditioning since leaving the army, whereas Sherlock had been working out regularly until the day he met John (after which the mountaineer started getting an entirely different kind of workout).

Sherlock now focused his energy completely on getting the expedition doctor ready for Everest. So John's training regimen started Saturday morning, only one day after losing his job at the clinic.

**06:00 ****—**** wake-up ****sex**** and/or shower sex  
**To John's surprise, Sherlock had absolutely no problem getting out of bed and staying out of it, even following the "wake-up and/or shower sex." After all the ribbing he had given Sherlock during the past few days about not being able to get up in the morning, John was now the one who wanted to sink back into bed, cocooned in a haze of satiety and euphoria. He forced himself to stay conscious and get moving, but it was definitely Sherlock's turn to smirk.

**07:00 ****— ****breakfast  
**John was insistent that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, but at the same time it was necessary to make sure that the amount of food they ate would not interfere with their rigorous morning workouts. He found some recipes for very high-calorie, high-protein shakes online, and he cycled through many variations during the coming weeks. One advantage to the shakes was that even with his sex-addled brain, he could handle tossing some stuff into a blender. Sherlock never offered to help; he loved watching John stumble around the kitchen looking totally debauched, secure in the knowledge that he, Sherlock, had made that happen.

**08:****0****0 ****— ****practice at indoor rock wall training facility followed by up to 10-mile hike  
**Learning to climb at the indoor rock wall training facility was amazing. John's leg never bothered him at all; and if his injured left shoulder ached a bit more than usual by the end of any given day, Sherlock was willing to work out the knots with his strong, capable fingers. (Then if afterwards those same fingers wandered elsewhere over John's body, well, no complaints there.)

The first thing John learned at the foot of the rock wall was the all-important "belay" technique, and from then on he was always roped to Sherlock either as the climber or the belayer. The rope forged a tight alliance between them as John learned the proper way to fall while roped and how to hold the ropes to keep Sherlock from falling with no fear of hitting the the mountains, the belayer holds the climber's life in his hands — literally. It was an amazing and humbling thought, and John imagined what it would be like for the two of them to be roped together on Everest — until he remembered, with a twinge of disappointment, that he wasn't actually expected to go any higher than Base Camp.

As the early weeks of training went on, John mastered the various angles of the rock walls from vertical to overhanging and was also soon easily able to keep up with Sherlock on the 10-mile hikes despite the embarrassingly large difference in the length of their strides. When Sherlock was satisfied with John's progress, they started making the wall climbs and the hikes wearing specially weighted backpacks to more accurately reproduce the conditions of climbing, when they would be carrying everything they needed on their backs at all times. John was in the best shape of his life, and Sherlock was exceedingly appreciative of the fact.

**13:00 ****— ****lunch  
**John turned into quite a good cook while experimenting around with recipes that would pack the necessary weight onto the mountaineer in time for the expedition. Sherlock's shirts, skin-tight from the beginning, almost immediately started straining against his chest, and he went up a size within a short time of John moving in. Sherlock admitted to John that this was the easiest he'd ever found it to gain weight before a climb, though he did not admit how thrilled he was to have John cooking and caring for him. That would be _sentiment_. But he figured John knew anyway. Somehow, John always knew.

**1****4****:****0****0 ****— ****BSCC administrative work with Greg and Sherlock  
**John learned about the managing of Baker Street Climbing Consultants during his scheduled sessions with Greg and Sherlock. The more he found out about Sherlock's operation, the more impressed he was. Especially once he started to consider the logistics involved in ordering the five tons of food, medicine and equipment needed to properly supply the coming expedition, which Sherlock (or more accurately, Greg) then had to arrange to transport all the way to Nepal by plane. And after that, by yak from from the airport in Kathmandu to Everest, approximately 100 miles away!

Because Sherlock wanted more time to investigate some of the less-savoury activities on Everest this coming season, he had purposely kept the expedition on the small side. The six offered slots had filled immediately. Sherlock's amazing eighty-five percent success rate in getting people to the top made his company the clear choice for anyone who was determined to reach the summit (and who was able to pay for it). There was still a waiting list that would fill up larger BSCC expeditions for several seasons to come.

It became John's job to open the BSCC mail. That's when he found out that Sherlock had a bit of an ulterior motive for making John a signatory on all of his accounts. It still showed enormous trust in John, but Sherlock now had someone to handle all of his personal affairs: balance his chequebooks; keep track of his expenses; organise records for his taxes and so on. (He actually offered to teach John how to forge his signature so he wouldn't even have to endorse his own cheques, the lazy sod, but John put his foot down firmly at that.)

John deposited any incoming cheques either to the business account or Sherlock's personal accounts; bills or inquiries regarding future expeditions were handed to Greg; the men passed the mountaineering catalogues around among themselves; and most of Sherlock's fan mail went into the circular file (but John read it all first and gleaned some truly memorable ideas for wild monkey sex with the mountaineer).

Some of the personal cheques for Sherlock came for his trust account, but in the main they were residual payments from his advertising shoots. The residuals reminded John to ask Sherlock why he hadn't done any adverts since the Jaguar commercial that had been produced the previous autumn. Sherlock said, "I don't do shoots during the run-up to an expedition unless it's for mountaineering equipment or supplies and I am in full climbing gear."

Greg snickered and interpreted the statement correctly for John: "He means the camera puts on 10 pounds and he's already forcing himself to gain weight. He wouldn't want anyone to think he's getting fat." Greg glanced at John and smirked. "Although I will say, Sherlock — you've probably gained 15 pounds already, but judging from the look on John's face, it doesn't bother _him_ at all." John turned bright red; he had indeed been looking at Sherlock and thinking enjoyably lewd thoughts about what they would do next time they got their hands on each other.

Sherlock's mouth turned up a bit at the corners. He glanced casually at his watch and said, "Ah, look at that; nearly time for our sex break…."

Greg snorted. "Oh, please, it's only 14:30. You're supposed to help me for another half hour before…"

"Close enough." Sherlock grabbed John's arm and spirited the blushing man off to the bedroom.

Greg called after them, "Fine! Just don't forget to shut the door!"

"EARPLUGS!" Sherlock's voice from the vicinity of the bedroom reminded him, and then the door slammed.

**16:00 - ****20:00 ****— **study high-altitude medicine  
Sherlock had by now ordered every medical book and journal recommended by Mike Stamford, and John immersed himself in them during his designated study times.

In the beginning, some of the unfamiliar medical conditions of high altitude really caught John off guard. "High altitude _flatus_?" he blurted, his voice scaling up at least a half-octave on the final word. He had just read that in some people, low air pressure at altitude causes the air in the intestines to expand, inflating the intestines and causing pain that can only be relieved by expelling the gas loudly and vigorously.

"Oh, yes, and it's great fun, too," Sherlock said drily. "I just can't decide if it's more fun for the person who has it or the people in the tent with him."

Greg, passing through the sitting room on his way home for the day, pulled a face and said, "Not the people in the tent. Trust me, mate." John immediately jotted himself a note to make sure that the medical supplies included an adequate stock of simethicone oral.

Although Sherlock knew John's study periods were necessary — he had, of course, set the duration at four hours himself — he felt bored and frustrated when he was not the centre of John's attention. Often during those times he took the opportunity to lie on the couch and enter his Mind Palace, specifically the room with John's name on the brass sign nailed to the door. The room was now considerably larger than on the day it originally opened up. It had grown to the size of an entire flat and was, in fact, starting to look almost exactly like the layout of 221B. There he avidly reviewed everything about John from the moment they met. He especially enjoyed reliving his first sight of the man, which was a scene frozen in his mind for eternity. Periodically he would look over at John sitting at the table surrounded by medical books and journals and marvel at the fact that _John was still here_.

**20:00 ****— ****dinner  
**John cooked, they had their usual battle over which of them was going to eat more from John's plate, and as John had learned almost from the start, the cleanup was all his. But Sherlock stayed and talked with him while he did the day's dishes and cleaned the kitchen, and that was good enough for John.

**21****:00 ****— ****crap telly, snogging on couch, etc.  
**John always looked forward to this time of the day, and apparently Sherlock did as well, because at 21:00 on the nose every night, he was standing next to the couch, impatiently waiting for John to come join him.

But best of all:

**06:00 ****— ****wake-up ****sex**** and/or shower sex ****• ****12:****3****0 ****shower sex**** • ****15:00 ****sex break ****• ****22:00 ****bed/sex  
**The sex breaks turned out to be quite a revelation to Sherlock, who came to understand for the first time how it was possible to put someone else's needs above one's own, as he had a shining example of this concept by his side 24/7. Even if John himself was not ready to have sex again (or as Sherlock invariably phrased it, even if John's refractory period had not yet ended), John would happily give Sherlock all the pleasure that Sherlock could handle, as often as he could handle it. When the situation was reversed and Sherlock was not ready, he now found himself eager to reciprocate. This astonished him, because before John, he'd never cared if his current partner wanted anything more or not. With the exception of his brief time with Victor, he had usually been out the door so fast, he would have had no way of knowing in any case.

**~~~/~~~**

The time flew by sweetly. That was the only word John could think to use for it. Since arriving at Baker Street he had found everything he'd ever wanted in life: love, companionship, the promise of adventure and the opportunity to once again practice challenging medicine — all wrapped up in the amazing person of Sherlock Holmes.

One day near the end of the first month of training, Sherlock spent over an hour on the phone consulting an outfitter with whom he worked closely, and the next day several enormous boxes addressed to John were delivered to 221B. When he opened them, the contents turned out to be the climbing gear and clothing he would need for Everest, quite a lot of which he would be able to break in when he and Sherlock started climbing in Scotland. Sherlock explained the use of each tool to John as the days went on. Wicked-looking 12-point crampons, ascenders, descenders, ice screws and pitons, several ice axes (perfectly suited to John's height, of course), carabiners — and a climbing harness (a belt with leg loops) to hang all the hardware on. The clothing included thermal underwear, several weights of gloves and glove liners, goggles, knit caps, helmets, a helmet light, and a standard snow suit for the lower camps.

There was also also a special extreme-weather snow suit for the higher camps; a full down suit with a wind-resistant surface, large enough to fit over many, many layers of clothes. Sherlock had ordered it for John, he explained somewhat gratuitously, "just in case it gets colder than usual at Base Camp." John thought the suit with its four inches of insulation rather resembled the Michelin Man even without anyone in it. And he was pleased to now own a true mountaineering backpack, which was completely different from the standard backpacks they wore on their rock wall climbs or extended hikes. The mountaineering backpack could carry almost anything in it — food, fuel, a cooking stove, a tent, a sleeping bag, a sleeping pad (for use under the sleeping bag when the camp is set on rocks) and on and on. Even though John wasn't going to be doing any climbing, he was still going to have to carry everything he would personally need for the entire two-month expedition on his back during the trek to Everest.

One rather unusual item to come out of the boxes was a queen-size goose down sleeping bag with a flannel lining weighing close to 15 pounds. Sherlock explained that it was only for their tent at base camp, as he had a single-person sleeping bag to carry to the higher camps. Impulsively John asked, "What if I make it to a higher camp while you're there?"

Sherlock smirked, "We'll just sleep together in my single." And he noted smugly to himself that John had broached the idea of going beyond Base Camp for the first (but hopefully not the last) time.

* * *

**End note:** Chapter 8 got a bit out of hand so I'm breaking it in two. I'm posting Part 1 today (Monday) as usual. I'll post Part 2 on Thursday or Friday and from then on, that will be my posting day. So, two chapters this week, then a week from Part 2 until the following update. It took me until this far into the story to realize that Monday is really not the best day for me to do this! Sometimes I'm just not very quick on the uptake.


	9. Uphill Climb, Part Two

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going, and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Nor, I'm sure, does anyone think I do.

New posting day: Fridays!

* * *

Chapter Excerpt: Sherlock had parked a short distance from the foot of Cladh Cailleach. They pitched the two-man tent next to the car, and then Sherlock unrolled their queen-sized sleeping bag. It took up the entire floor of the tent, effectively turning the structure into one big bed. John laughed. "That's subtle," he smirked.

* * *

At the very end of the initial month of training, Sherlock presented John with a new timetable. It no longer included rock wall practice, and it showed even longer daily hikes than before. Most exciting to John was that it featured at least three days a week, and eventually four, of real mountain climbing in Scotland.

**Training Schedule, month two (Early December to early January)****  
**_Monday to Thursday_  
06:00 — wake up  
07:00 — breakfast  
08:00 — 15 to 20-mile hike wearing weighted backpacks.  
13:00 — lunch  
14:00 — BSCC administrative work with Greg and Sherlock  
16:00 — study high-altitude medicine  
20:00 — dinner  
21:00 — crap telly, snogging on couch, etc.  
22:00 — bed  
_Thursday or Friday to Sunday __— __Scotland_

But the first time John looked at the new timetable, his brow furrowed. "Where did the sex go?"

"The old schedule was too restrictive. I decided that we should endeavour to be more spontaneous," Sherlock said, as he unzipped John's jeans.

**~~~/~~~**

Sherlock chartered a small private jet to get them to Scotland on weekends, because he felt that the 6-hour-plus drive there and back wasted a ridiculous amount of time that could be spent climbing (or fooling around in their tent).

He had already explained that their first trip would be to a relatively small hill for the purpose of teaching John how to utilize his ice axe to stop himself from sliding in case of a fall, a technique that could save his life and the lives of anyone who might be roped to him at the time.

John felt he was holding Sherlock back, though. He suspected that the mountaineer would probably be training on Ben Nevis, at 4,400 feet the highest mountain in Scotland, if not for having to look after a neophyte. He said something of the sort to Sherlock.

"John, no time spent in the mountains is ever wasted. You'll see."

They had reserved a 4x4 Land Rover at the airport car rental office for the trip to the hill chosen by Sherlock as the perfect place for John to start. Sherlock being Sherlock, he was unable to give up control (_anywhere but in bed,_ John thought with a smirk), so he drove.

They didn't talk much until they got out of Glasgow, but they did look at each other and smile from time to time. John was content watching the stark but beautiful scenery passing by outside the passenger window.

Sherlock's thoughts were on the hotel room he had reserved for them Sunday night. This first time out would be especially taxing for John, and the hotel stay would give him a short respite before they jumped right back into the schedule. They hadn't taken much in the way of time off since they had started training a month earlier.

When the traffic lessened to the point where they were one of the only cars on the road, Sherlock suddenly said, "I'm looking forward to Sunday night at the hotel. I read that hotel sex is supposed to be extremely uninhibited compared to sex at home."

John smiled affectionately, imagining Sherlock methodically googling hotel sex. "I haven't noticed that anything has ever inhibited you, Sherlock. Not even Greg's presence in the flat. Me, I'm actually looking forward to the tent sex. And I'm sorry it won't be cold enough to need our extreme-weather snowsuits in Scotland, because I want to know how we're going to have sex while wearing those bulky monstrosities."

"We'll have to figure it out together then, because I've not done that before either. I've never been with anyone on a mountain. It would be too distracting."

John frowned. "Then what about me, this season? And the queen-size sleeping bag?"

"You are not a distraction, John; you are as necessary to me as oxygen."

John swallowed hard and shifted around uncomfortably in his seat. This was as close as Sherlock had ever come to a declaration of love, and John found it extremely arousing.

Sherlock smirked down at John's lap. "Do you want to hold onto that thought, John, or should I pull over and…."

"Oh God, yes, pull over," John choked out. Sherlock drove off-road and parked behind a particularly thick stand of trees.

The back seat was full of mountaineering equipment so they had to make do in the front seat, gearstick notwithstanding. Sherlock managed to coax the most amazing orgasm out of John by whispering, "as necessary to me as oxygen," when he felt that John was close. After that, John barely touched Sherlock and he came with a great shout. All in all, it was a most satisfactory detour.

John cleaned them up with the wet wipes brought along for the camping trip. He'd known the wipes would be used for this purpose (among many others), but hadn't expected it would happen quite so soon.

And Sherlock displayed the smug smile he often wore after sex. _John was still here_.

John fell asleep soon after they got underway again. Now and then Sherlock glanced briefly towards the man in the passenger seat. How John always managed to make him lose his self-control, Sherlock could not understand. He didn't think he'd ever come from just one touch before.

John did not stir until the car stopped moving, when he awoke with a start and looked around, rubbing his eyes with his fists in a manner most endearing to Sherlock.

"What hill is this, now? It looks very small," he said, somewhat chagrined. There were actually much higher peaks scattered all around.

"It's called Sgùrr an Cladh Cailleach, the Hill of the Witches' Grave. It _is_ small, but it is also somewhat obscure, and I doubt we shall have any competition for using it. I wrote to the farmer whose land we needed to cross to get here. He granted us permission to drive through his property, and even to camp there if we wished. But I think we'll just set up right here. We're going to get more than enough activity this weekend without needing to add hikes back and forth."

"Hill of the Witches' Grave, eh? Well, let's get started on my first climb outside of the rock wall facility." Sherlock smiled a bit at the idea of calling this a "climb" but John was so excited he didn't have the heart to point out that it was really nothing more than a demanding hill walk.

Sherlock had parked a short distance from the foot of Cladh Cailleach. They pitched the two-man tent next to the car, and then Sherlock unrolled their queen-sized sleeping bag. It took up the entire floor of the tent, effectively turning the structure into one big bed. John laughed. "That's subtle," he smirked.

"There's no way we are going to use two sleeping bags and waste perfectly good body heat…and other opportunities," Sherlock replied. He smiled mischievously. "Would you care to try it out right now?"

"Not if you expect me to learn anything today," John groaned. "I can't believe you're even thinking about sex so soon after that bit earlier — talk about spontaneous!"

"Our first car sex," Sherlock said brightly, and John smiled fondly at him.

They started up the snowy slope. John soon realised it was challenging enough for his first time. Sherlock taught him how to walk in snow using the spike at the bottom of his ice axe for support when necessary, although of course the snow on Cladh Cailleach was nowhere near as deep as that which they were going to encounter on Everest. When they got about three-quarters of the way up, Sherlock looked behind them and nodded. "This is a good spot. The snow cover is perfect for sliding and there's a gradual run-out — no big rocks or sharp drops that could hurt you in case you aren't able to arrest quickly enough."

Sherlock made sure John put on his eye protection and helmet."But what about my crampons?" John wondered. "Wouldn't I be wearing them on Everest?"

"Crampons are never worn to practice self-arrest, John. You will need to raise your feet off the ground as part of the procedure, but in the beginning it won't be second nature to you. If the tip of one of the crampons were to catch in the ground, you could go cartwheeling. Chances are you'd be seriously hurt, even on this gentle slope." John was more than a little disappointed because he had wanted to try out all his new equipment at once!

Although self-arrest was a deadly serious subject, it was fun to practice. John spent a lot of time hurling himself into the snow and sliding down the sloping north face of Cladh Cailleach. Then Sherlock yelled "Self-arrest! Self-arrest!" exactly as climbers do when someone slips in the mountains, and John jammed the pick of his ice axe into the hillside to bring himself to a stop. They practiced how to self-arrest on the stomach with the feet pointing down the hill first. It was the easiest form to learn, since that was already the correct position in which to end the technique. John picked up the skill easily enough.

They trudged down the hill for lunch by the tent, where they made some sandwiches out of the enormous amount of food Mrs. Hudson had packed for their first climbing weekend. ("I'm not your housekeeper, dearies, but just this once….") After lunch they went back up the hill and Sherlock taught John how to self-arrest a headfirst slip on the stomach — the object being to twist around until the feet are pointing down the hill. Finally Sherlock pronounced himself satisfied for the day and they plodded back to the tent, where they made up dinner from Mrs. Hudson's hamper as well. They snogged for a bit, then they christened the sleeping bag and slept deeply and peacefully.

On Saturday they went all the way to the top of the hill, and John learned how to torque himself into the proper final position no matter how he fell when he started to slide. By noon Sunday, Sherlock said John looked as though he'd been born with the ability. Then they struck camp and drove to the hotel where they had their reservation. Sherlock got to have hotel sex — several times, in fact. He pronounced it quite acceptable, with the added advantage that they didn't have to change and wash the sheets themselves afterwards. John burst into happy laughter, and although Sherlock wasn't sure what he'd said that was all that funny, a ripple of pleasure fluttered deep in his chest. He thought he would give a lot to coax that sound out of John more often.

"As if _you _ever change and wash the sheets!?" Still laughing, John tackled Sherlock and threw him down on the bed, where they wrestled a bit for control. Sherlock managed to end up on top and eventually he was able to coax other, even more wonderful sounds out of John.

Hotel sex. Amazing!

They flew back in the chartered jet late Monday morning and on Tuesday resumed the training schedule for Month Two.

The following weekend they drove from the airport to Beinn an Fhir Bhrèige, a hill with an intriguing name which Sherlock said meant the Ridge of the False Man. At nearly 3,500 feet, Fhir Bhrèige was many times taller than the one on which they had practiced self-arresting. Here they could also do technical climbing, which John already knew encompassed at the very least the use of crampons and an ice axe. This would give him the ability to handle competently the three basics necessary for a safe climb from Base Camp to the summit and back: the belay and self-arrest techniques, and eventually even crevasse self-rescue (for the practice of which, fortunately, an actual crevasse would not be needed). In their tent at night, Sherlock had John practice friction hitch knots by the light of the lantern hanging from the loop at the top-center of the tent's ceiling. With his gloves on, exactly the way it would probably happen at altitude. "The repercussions of a poorly tied knot, John, will be felt not only by you — for example, in self-rescue — but by everyone who might ever be on a rope with you." The knots were not difficult to learn, but Sherlock assured him that they would be vital in many emergency situations. The hitch knot can slide and grip: when weighted it grips the climbing rope, and depending on which hitch is used, with the weight released it can easily be slipped up or down, allowing the climber to safely get to the bottom or the top of the rope. John could see how safety would be much desired when dangling at the end of a rope in a crevasse measuring ten stories deep.

There were six separate routes to the top of Fhir Bhrèige, each one having slightly different features perfect for the practice of the various climbing techniques, and Sherlock took John up each route over the weeks to come. He taught John how to traverse, which basically means climbing by moving horizontally across a mountain or rock face rather than straight up, and he made sure John still remembered how to rappel, a skill which the former soldier had of course already learned during his basic training in the army. The practice of crevasse rescue was fascinating but completely exhausting, and John certainly got to put his friction hitches to use. Sherlock wanted John to practice ascending a rope as if he had fallen into a wide crevasse and needed to haul himself out without any help from above. It was nerve-racking work, swinging from the rope and painstakingly forming the hitches needed to allow him to pull himself up, but when John reached the ledge and Sherlock leaned forward to guide him up and over the lip, he felt like there was nothing on earth he couldn't handle.

It was especially galvanizing to John to be able to practice the belay technique on a mountain instead of a rock wall. In the gym they had practiced falling while roped, but on Fhir Bhrèige, they tried their hardest not to fall, whether on or off belay. Spending time roped together was another sort of shared intimacy: when John heard Sherlock call out "On belay," it meant to him that he was now holding Sherlock's life in his hands, and as he replied, "Belay on," he swore fiercely to himself that he would never, ever let Sherlock fall. As for Sherlock, _sentiment_ or not, he had never felt such a connection to anyone through the rope as he did with John, not even Greg, his long-time climbing partner.

John very much looked forward to the weekends in Scotland. If it weren't for the various administrative duties that kept them at Baker Street at least part of the week, John thought he'd be happy to spend an entire month with Sherlock on the hills and ridges of Scotland. And each night when they fell into each other's arms in the double sleeping bag, John had to heartily agree with Sherlock's assessment that no time in the mountains is ever wasted.

* * *

Author's Notes

**General:**

I am SO not a climber! I get mountain sick just driving around in mountains, and sometimes simply watching instruction videos makes me a bit dizzy.

To clarify one term: traverse has quite a few meanings when applied to mountain climbing, but the two most common are: 1) to climb in a horizontal direction, and 2) to go up the mountain using a different route than when descending.

**About Scotland:**

Scotland is the most mountainous country in the UK and is truly a wonderful place to learn to mountaineering, because it has everything from summer scrambles to technical rock to demanding winter climbs (this last is the feature John and Sherlock are taking advantage of).

Mountain names in Scotland are usually given in Gaidhlig (Scottish Gaelic). The conveniently deserted and easy-to drive-to peaks that Sherlock and John use here are totally fictional. Their Gaidhlig names and translations were suggested to me by a Scottish friend. Thanks, Séumas!

Sgùrr an Cladh Cailleach, the Hill of the Witches Grave, is pronounced  
Skurr an klye callyach (ch as in loch)

Beinn an Fhir Bhrèige , the Ridge of the False Man, is pronounced  
Fair an eer vraygah

**Self-arrest, belay, crevasse rescue:**

FFn readers, if you're interested in what self-arresting with an ice axe actually looks like, there is a six-minute video on YouTube I recommend. You can find it by going over there and searching "ice axe arrest / self arrest Glenmore Lodge". It's worth checking into just to hear the lovely accent of the presenter.

Belay is a climbing term that denotes the act of securing a rope to safeguard one's companions as they climb. There are videos on YouTube of how to belay as well, but the subject is so complex, I decided to just try to describe it very, very generally and hope that satisfies.

Crevasse rescue is thoroughly covered on YouTube as well. Most of the videos are quite long and involved, as hauling yourself (self-rescue) or an injured, fallen climber out of a crevasse is an enormous amount of work.


	10. Just Do It

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Or Nike.

Thanks to everyone who has commented or reviewed and PM'd me! Please don't stop now.

Chapter contains an odd, Sherlock-y discussion of anal sex. There is also some activity in that direction but it should not affect the rating. When you read it, assuming you want to read it, you'll see why.

No camels were harmed in the writing of this chapter.

* * *

Chapter Excerpt: Mrs. Hudson's hamper even included a sprig of mistletoe, which John attached to the lantern loop at the top-center of the ceiling as soon as the tent went up near the foot of Beinn an Fhir Bhrèige. He told Sherlock only half-jokingly that as long as they were lying under the mistletoe, someone had to be kissing someone else.

* * *

_Late December, Early January_

The schedule they were following would place them in Scotland squarely over both Christmas and New Year's. Sherlock was ecstatic because he had the perfect excuse to avoid any family gatherings. John, who had no intention of spending Christmas and New Year's with anyone other than Sherlock, made a quick phone call to Harry explaining that the trips to Scotland were a mandatory part of his new job. (Not a complete lie, after all — he really did need climbing practice.) Even though this would be John's first Christmas home since leaving the army, Harry took it well and she sounded good, even hinting at the possibility of a reconciliation with Clara. Both Watson siblings were relieved that they would not be forced to play Happy Families over the holidays.

When Mrs. Hudson realised "her boys" were going to be spending Christmas in a tent, she insisted on packing them traditional Christmas foods, including a Christmas pudding. ("I'm not your housekeeper, dearies, but since it _is_ Christmas…") Her hamper even included a sprig of mistletoe, which John attached to the lantern loop at the top-center of the ceiling as soon as the tent went up near the foot of Beinn an Fhir Bhrèige. He told Sherlock only half-jokingly that as long as they were lying under the mistletoe, someone had to be kissing someone else.

Come Christmas Eve, after they had exchanged an extremely satisfying early Christmas present, John was just starting to drift off to sleep when Sherlock asked, "Have you ever had penetrative sex?"

"Of course," John replied drowsily.

Sherlock's face fell. He had been hoping to be John's first that way. Even more, he wanted to be John's only that way.

To be honest, what he really needed was to blast the memory of everyone else completely from John's mind. He knew that John didn't take sex partners anywhere near as casually as he himself had done, and so probably still remembered quite a few of them. Which was totally unacceptable.

The echoing silence that greeted his answer clued John in to the fact that something was amiss. He forced himself awake, replayed the conversation in his head and said, "I have slept with women, after all."

_Honestly, John can be so oblivious at times._"I meant with a man," Sherlock responded somewhat crossly.

"No. Have you?" John asked, although he was fairly certain he knew the answer.

"No. I came close to having it forced on me a few times while I was on the streets, but no. It's not something that ever interested me." Sherlock trained his heterochromatic eyes intently on John and the words "until now" hovered in the air between them.

John had to bite his tongue to keep from asking, "Not even with Victor?" That question had already been answered, and Sherlock hated having to repeat himself. But John really wanted to hear him say it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously not with Victor, either," he said, reading the unspoken question clearly on John's face and deigning to answer, no matter how curtly.

"Why not?" John asked curiously. "Your first actual relationship."

"It really wasn't," Sherlock said dismissively. "And if I had ever, for even one moment, believed that it was, then this – us – now, would show me the error of my ways. In any case, I never imagined doing something as intimate as letting anyone into my body." Sherlock's gaze grew even more intense. "But you are the exception to everything I have ever held to be true, and I wanted you in every way possible from the minute I first saw you."

John had always wondered if this discussion might be coming some day but had not known until this moment exactly how he was going to respond. This wasn't anything he had ever considered for himself, and if Sherlock had not brought it up, John probably wouldn't have either. But he was not going say no to Sherlock, who apparently had deeply buried most of his desires and expectations until John came along to disinter them. If this is what Sherlock wanted now, John was not going to refuse him.

And once having made up his mind, John did not faff about. He pressed his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck and said, "Not tonight because I probably couldn't get it up again if my life depended on it. Tomorrow morning? For Christmas?"

Sherlock sighed in disappointment. "We can't have our first time here. We would not be able to climb comfortably for a day or two afterwards. But since we have to wait anyway, I thought I would make reservations for the New Year's holiday at a hotel and we just won't do any climbing at all next weekend."

"But why wait that long? We'll be home Monday afternoon."

Sherlock reached out and caressed John's cheek. "John…you've never complained but I know that you aren't always completely at ease having sex even when Greg isn't in the flat, because Mrs. Hudson's bedroom is directly below ours. I don't want you to have that in the back of your mind — I want to be the only thing on your mind. I want this first time to be between the two of us and no one else."

John nibbled tenderly at Sherlock's collarbone. "That sounds wonderful," he admitted. Additionally, he felt relieved to have a little more time to get used to the idea that this was going to happen even though it wasn't anything he had ever thought he would experience.

It was going to be a big step for their relationship. And apparently Sherlock felt the same, because John could feel that his heart was pounding. Had he perhaps been worried that John would say no? Didn't he know that John would never deny him anything important?

After Sherlock fell asleep, John lay awake thinking. He had promised Sherlock and he wasn't going to go back on his word. But what if he and Sherlock took this next big step and it wasn't what Sherlock hoped it would be? The problem was that John had never been able to forget Mycroft's words: _He__'__ll get tired of this caring lark._

**~~~/~~~**

Sherlock slept deeply that night, and when he awoke the next morning John was not in the sleeping bag, though there was a neatly-wrapped package on his pillow. A slightly squashed, bright-red poinsettia bloom was taped to the small, flat box. John must have been concealing it in his backpack. He rattled it gently but nothing happened, and he could not deduce the contents. Not for the first or last time, he wondered how it was that for someone he could read like a book, John nevertheless always managed to surprise him in the end.

He heard John outside tending the cooking fire. Sherlock got up, retrieved the gift for the doctor from his own backpack and stuck his head outside the tent. He frowned when he saw that John was completely dressed. That was not part of the plan.

"Good morning, John. Happy Christmas. I thought we might open our pressies now."

"Happy Christmas," John replied with a smile. The water had just heated for tea and instant oatmeal, so he slipped into the tent as soon as he passed Sherlock the food and drinks to put inside. In hindsight this was perhaps not the best idea, because there was really no place to set them except on the sleeping bag.

"You go first," Sherlock urged, pressing his gift into John's hands. John unwrapped it expectantly. It was a jeweler's watch box, which he opened to find an expedition watch similar to the ones worn by Greg and Sherlock. It was easily the most expensive watched he'd ever owned, or was ever likely to own. He looked at it in awe.

Sherlock eagerly pointed out the features of the watch most relevant to the coming expedition. It had a rugged black titanium bracelet and casing, it was shock-resistant, solar powered, impervious to extremely low temperatures, and featured atomic timekeeping for accuracy to one-millionth of a second. ("In case we ever need to synchronise our watches, John!") One of the many buttons jutting from the side turned it into a compass. It also measured altitude, atmospheric pressure and temperature. John wondered if he would even be able to figure out how to use all these functions before arriving on Everest in three months.

Then Sherlock proudly turned over the casing and on the back, engraved on three lines, John saw:

TO JOHN FROM SHERLOCK  
FIRST CHRISTMAS  
2010

_First _Christmas! If John didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock had given in a bit to _sentiment!_

After receiving some touching and convincing proofs of John's appreciation, Sherlock picked up the small, flat box from the pillow. He found he was still unable to deduce the contents, so he schooled his face to look pleased when he opened the gift, no matter what it turned out to be. No one ever really knew what to give him, which had resulted in many useless and inappropriate gifts over the years. _But it__'__s from John, so I shall pretend to like it no matter what it is._

And John amazed him once again! Sherlock's hands shook a bit as he removed the gift from between the thick layers of cotton batting that had prevented the contents from rattling. He raised his eyes to John in disbelief. "You're giving me your dog tags?"

"I was cleaning out my wash kit and I found them tucked away in there. I know they're not much, but I thought you might like them."

"Not much?" Sherlock scoffed, slipping the sturdy army-issue chain over his head and engulfing the little round tags protectively in one enormous hand. "John, this is the best present I've ever received."

John said, "Then that's fair, because you already gave me the best gift _anyone_ has ever had. You gave me my life back, Sherlock."

Sherlock reached out and started peeling layers of clothing from John's willing body. "And I'm a very lucky man, because it looks like I still have one more present to unwrap," he said.

The tea and porridge spilled on the bed during all the excitement. Afterwards Sherlock said, "We'll just clean it the best we can now and take it to the dry cleaners when we get back to London."

John paused in scraping up the porridge. "It'll cost a fortune."

Sherlock touched the dog tags. "It was worth it."

For the next two days they remained at the foot of Beinn an Fhir Bhrèige. Besides getting John used to the effort needed to self-arrest while roped to a falling climber, Sherlock taught him how to glissade. It was fun, but as he and Sherlock slid down icy ridges either squatting or directly on their backsides, John had to admit that Sherlock had been absolutely correct about waiting until they weren't working in the mountains.

They were in the chartered jet on the way back to London when Sherlock suddenly asked, "Was your first time with a boy or a girl?"

"A girl," John replied, "but only because the boy I fancied didn't fancy boys. I was 16 and I took what was offered, as crude as that now sounds."

"And after that?" Sherlock prompted him.

"Well, at uni I went out with both men and women. In the army it was not so easy, though. I was mostly out in the field and it was all pretty furtive there.**"**

"Was there anyone you especially liked and thought that something might come of it?" Sherlock asked jealously.

"Not really; I knew I was going into the army so I made sure to keep things casual. And I'm very glad I did, because now that I've met you I realise that there could be no one else for me." He looked questioningly at Sherlock. "What about you? I assume your first was a boy?"

"I don't even remember my first. I traded sex for drugs when I was living rough and I never cared who I was with." Sherlock paused for a moment, reflecting with gratitude on the fact that he had come through that deplorable period unscathed, eventually to meet John. "After I got clean I partnered exclusively with men, but I just never found sex all that interesting."

John stared. "What happened to _that_ Sherlock?"

"That Sherlock met this John Watson."

**~~~/~~~**

Following their usual schedule they were home from Monday afternoon until Thursday. Then it was New Year's Eve, and they were alone in a posh London hotel suite rather than a two-man tent in the Southern Highlands of Scotland.

Suddenly things seemed very uncomfortable between them. Was there a protocol for this? Should they lock the door and get down to business, or have a meal in the dining room first and then…? They looked at each other and started laughing. After everything they'd done (and as often as they had done them) for almost two months, how strange that they should feel so self-conscious now!

With a small shake of his head, Sherlock made the decision for them. He took the "DO NOT DISTURB" sign and hung it on the outside door knob. Then he closed and locked the door, walked firmly to the bed and pointedly threw back the covers.

They undressed and got into bed stiffly, like two strangers. Sherlock lay on his stomach and rested his forehead on his folded arms. "Let's get on with this then," he said, his voice muffled but shaky.

John pulled the covers up because Sherlock had broken out in goosebumps. He stroked Sherlock's back gently and pressed small kisses on his shoulder. "Are you sure you want to do this, Sherlock? After all, we have been perfectly happy with the way things are." Sherlock twisted his head to look back at John, who amended, "Okay we've been very happy…"

Sherlock flipped from his stomach to his back and regarded John with vulnerable eyes. "I want us to have something with each other that no one else has ever had or ever will have." He swallowed a bittersweet lump in his throat and continued, "But, John, we don't have to do this if you don't want to."

John took one of Sherlock's hands and guided it under the covers. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, he was already half-hard. "Does this feel to you like it's something I don't want to do?"

"Then why are you hesitating?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm afraid I'll hurt you, Sherlock."

"Just do it," Sherlock said through gritted teeth and turned over on his stomach again.

It was ungainly and clumsy and the preparation made it seem like work. (_It__'__ll be easier next time_, John chanted over and over to himself.) He stopped to check that Sherlock was not in pain so often that the exasperated man finally let out a string of oaths in frustration. "Do not stop again, John. I warn you, I know at least 17 ways to dispose of a body so that it will never be found. Now get on with it."

John got on with it, but apparently still not fast enough for Sherlock.

"What is it _now_, John?"

"You're too tense. You're not ready yet."

"I am, I really am."

"Okay…" John said dubiously and continued with caution.

"Ow!"

"Just relax and it won't feel as bad," John said soothingly.

"How can I relax? I'm in the process of being deflowered!"

Not for the first time, it struck John that he was madly in love with a drama queen. With a sigh, he fumbled for more lube.

"Honestly, John, I would have thought a doctor would be more efficient at…_oh_."

"God, you're so tight…" John said; he'd never felt anything like it. His world tilted a bit on its axis. How could he have ever thought this wasn't something he wanted? But Sherlock was now squirming in obvious discomfort. The motion did nothing to help John's self-control and he started to worry that he'd come too fast and ruin it for Sherlock.

Shaking his head at the farcical elements of the whole situation, John smiled a bit crookedly. Stretching his spine and neck a bit, he leaned forward to whisper into Sherlock's ear.

"Are we having fun yet?"

Sherlock laughed so hard he dislodged John, but as was John's intention, he definitely relaxed. It was easier for John the second time, and the sounds Sherlock made next were about as far from pain as they could be.

And after that, things started to go very well indeed.

Much, much later, when John was finally able to move again, he went to fetch a flannel to clean them up. "Sherlock?" he asked quietly, as he ran the damp flannel all around Sherlock's torso. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock rolled onto his side and looked at John with stunned eyes. "I didn't know," he said. "I didn't know giving myself to you would be anything like this…"

John cleaned himself and threw the flannel on the carpet next to the bed. He slipped back under the covers and lay facing Sherlock. "It was amazing," he agreed. "Almost as amazing as you are." The sex flush, which had been fading from Sherlock's face and neck, came back as a blush of pleasure arising from John's words.

"Would you ever consider letting me do that to you?" Sherlock asked almost diffidently. John slid over a bit in the bed until they were pressed chest to chest and kissed Sherlock as tenderly as he knew how. "Whatever you want, Sherlock," he murmured. "Anything you want."

They did not leave the room until check-out time three days later. Even though it was a personal expense, Sherlock decided to put the weekend on the business card just for the fun of seeing how Greg would react to a hotel bill for four nights and three days in a luxury suite, plus room service for every meal and post-coital snack. He planned to have John write a cheque from the personal account to pay the business back after he saw Greg's face.

They were returning to 221B in a cab when Sherlock said decisively, "After we're married, we …"

"Excuse me," John interrupted, although he had to bite his lip hard to keep a delighted grin from splitting his face in two, "did I hear a question in there somewhere?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. We both know you're going to say yes."

"It would still be nice to get _some_ input, Sherlock."

"I shall keep that in mind when the time comes," Sherlock replied (though they each privately suspected he probably wouldn't when the time came). Then he shot a sideways glance at the man sitting next to him. "I love you, John."

John had heard that often during the past weekend. And had said it back just as often. Indeed, it was as if a dam had opened and they had not been able stop themselves from murmuring it between moans and kisses. But John could still hear Mycroft _(may his camel drink from a poisoned water source)_ warning, "He'll get tired of this caring lark."

Resolutely forcing Mycroft out of his mind, John responded, "I love you too, Sherlock."

* * *

Okay, I really, really wanted to call this chapter "Inside Sherlock Holmes," but I just didn't have the nerve.

**Glissade**  
In mountain climbing, a glissade is a controlled slide, in either a standing or sitting position with the support of an ice axe, used in descending a steep icy or snowy incline

**The watch**  
If you're interested in seeing the expedition watch I had in mind when I wrote this chapter, go to amazon and enter Casio Titanium Atomic LIMITED PRW-5100YT-1JF


	11. Sherlock Loses A Client

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Thanks to everyone who has commented, or reviewed and PM'd me. Don't stop now!

U.S. readers: substitute "Emily Post" for "a Victorian governess" and you'll get the idea.

One further note: Sorry, Molly.

* * *

Chapter Excerpt: When you love someone, you learn to take the bad along with the good. Except in Sherlock's case it was more like the incredibly annoying along with the incredibly endearing, and sometimes it was hard to separate the two.

* * *

_Mid-January_

And to think that John had been pleased when Sherlock first brought the idea up!

They'd climbed hard in Scotland for a couple of weekends after their London hotel stay, and Sherlock decided it was time for another break. That meant no training of any kind until the following weekend, and according to Sherlock's way of looking at things, John didn't need to be studying then either. But Mike Stamford had given John a very long list of recommended reading material which translated into one humungous pile of books for him to get through. The books were not going to read themselves, so John had his (_adorably turned-up)_ nose buried in the latest issue of "The Journal of High Altitude Medicine and Biology."

Sherlock felt that John was spending far too much time studying and not nearly enough time snogging. He wondered what he himself had been thinking, setting aside a four-hour block of time for John to study every day when they were at Baker Street. Four hours a day when John wasn't even thinking about him! What a waste. Sherlock continued to spend most of that time in his Mind Palace, deleting unneeded information in order to free up space to enlarge the room with John's name on the brass sign nailed to the door. Now grown to the size of the Grand Hall in a stately home, it was the most desirable room in his Mind Palace, a high-ceilinged chamber with sturdy oaken beams and very large arched windows through which the sun shone 24 hours a day.

John was taking meticulous notes about the latest techniques for treating frostbite when Sherlock said suddenly, "I was thinking it might be well for you to know a few more people besides Lestrade and myself by the time the expedition starts. As it happens, there is a doctor who signed up, and unlike most of the other expedition members, she lives locally. I thought perhaps I should invite her to dinner with us one night so you can get to know her."

"That's so thoughtful, Sherlock," John said, looking up from his medical journal for the first time in what seemed like many hours to his put-upon flatmate.

Sherlock beamed.

"It's also totally unlike you," John continued.

Sherlock frowned. John didn't think he was thoughtful? He didn't like the way that sounded _at all._

"So what are you really up to, Sherlock?"

"I am not 'up to' anything," Sherlock huffed, which as it later turned out, was more than somewhat mendacious. "I simply thought a nice dinner…some congenial conversation…"

"All right, then. That sounds good to me too, ta very much. Let's do it sometime."

"Excellent. She'll be here in two hours."

"What?" John accidentally dropped the journal and lost his place.

"Yes, I have already invited her, and she has accepted."

When you love someone, you learn to take the bad along with the good. Except in Sherlock's case it was more like the incredibly annoying along with the incredibly endearing, and sometimes it was hard to separate the two. John had to laugh. "Fine. I was planning to make us a roast for dinner tonight. It's probably big enough for three as long as I let you steal even more off my plate than you usually do."

"I have already ordered Chinese to be delivered, John. I don't intend for you to lift a finger. Just sit back, get to know her…." In reality, Sherlock didn't want John cooking and caring for anyone but himself. He probably couldn't admit that out loud without sounding pathetic, but it was the truth.

"Tell me about her. Is she an experienced climber?"

"Totally amateur, weekends and holidays only. However, Everest is on her bucket list, and apparently she decided to get a bank loan in order to be able to do this now." _Made up her mind to do it on the day she first met me, without a doubt._

"And you already know her personally?"

"I do. Her name is Molly Hooper and she's a pathologist at Barts. She's the one who lets me into the morgue from time to time to look at interesting corpses and use the equipment there. She's…nice." _Pathetically eager to please. _

"Oh, wait — isn't she the one who mailed in her final installment cheque tucked into sparkly notepaper with cats on it?" There had been some snickering in the office that day.

"Yes, that was Molly," Sherlock said. "I should tell you that it's possible that she has something of a crush on me."

John smiled tolerantly. "I can certainly see how that might happen." He re-opened the journal he had been studying, flipping quickly through the pages looking for his place before Sherlock surprised him with the dinner plans.

The food came, and John had just put everything into a warm oven when Sherlock strode into the kitchen and unceremoniously slipped a large and talented hand down the front of his trousers.

"Sherlock, _ahhh,_ what the…_oooh_. W-wait, Dr. Hooper will be here in less than forty-five minutes!"

"Yes. I read somewhere that if you have sex with your partner before hosting a party together, you will present a more united front to the guests." Sherlock's hand continued its capable exploration.

"You read that? W-where would you r-read s-something like that?" By now John was clutching at Sherlock in an effort to stay on his feet, and his attempt to sound disbelieving fell completely flat.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said crisply. "Now come along." John allowed himself to be shepherded into the bedroom, because despite the misgivings coming from his brain, his cock was totally willing.

John somehow managed to get his brain back in gear more quickly than usual afterwards. "You made up that 'united front' thing, didn't you? It was just an excuse to get me to stop studying and have sex that much sooner."

"Not at all. Now that we are both awash with oxytocin, our feelings of attachment to each other should be quite apparent to anyone."

John just shook his head. Sherlock's behavior could be inexplicable at the best of times, but when he got like this, it was wisest just to leave it be.

They showered together as usual, and Sherlock looked so luscious with water sluicing down his body that John was sorry they couldn't have another go. But, alas! He was thirty-nine, not nineteen. They'd have to wait until after their guest left. Sherlock preened as if he knew exactly what John had in mind. Which he probably did.

After they were dressed, John said a bit crossly, "So now you look ready to go to an awards banquet, and I still look like I was just shagged through the mattress."

Sherlock smiled and mussed John's hair gently. "It's a good look on you."

John went to check on the food while Sherlock remained behind in their bedroom, flipping idly through the latest issue of Out Magazine and feeling extremely pleased with himself.

The brass knocker sounded on the front door downstairs. From the kitchen John called, "Sherlock, would you get the door?"

"I think you should do it, John," Sherlock called back. "Doctors together and all that."

"Yeah, you lazy sod, right," John said smiling good-naturedly, and went to get the door himself.

**~~~/~~~**

Molly Hooper dismissed the cab and walked up to the entrance of Sherlock's building with her heart pounding wildly. Finally, _finally,_ he was admitting his long-denied interest in her! He had invited her to dinner _in his flat_ and from the warm tone of voice in which he asked her, she just knew this was the night that they would Consummate Their Unrequited Love! She had put together a little overnight case with her best nightie, a change of underwear, a half-dozen condoms and various other sundries; and now here she was, waiting for Sherlock to open the door, sweep her into his arms and carry her up the stairs to his flat. Perhaps they would have sex even before dinner? She could imagine him kicking open the door to his bedroom since his arms would be full, carrying her; or maybe he wouldn't even be able to resist that long and he would take her on the floor of his flat! Or _oh_, even better, right on the stairs! Lost in her daydreams, she raised her eyes as the door opened…and a short, sandy-haired man stood before her. She frowned.

When John opened the big outer door, he saw a pretty brown-haired girl wearing slightly frumpy clothing (not that John thought he had any right to judge), carrying a little overnight case. Her forehead creased a bit as she looked at him.

"Hello," she said uncertainly. "I'm here for Sherlock?"

John smiled warmly. "You must be Dr. Hooper," he said. "I'm John Watson. Come on up."

He preceded Molly up the stairs and led her into 221B. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, the annoying berk. John took her coat, but he hesitated when she handed him the overnight case. "Just put everything in Sherlock's bedroom," she said with a happy little smile.

"Wait here, I'll be right back with Sherlock," John said through stiff lips.

Sherlock was still on the bed, but now he was lying flat on his back staring at the ceiling, his fingers steepled under his chin. John set Molly's coat and the little case down on the duvet. "Did you tell Molly you were inviting her here to spend the night with you?"

"Of course not, but I may have neglected to mention that you were going to be present. She might have got the wrong impression."

John felt a headache coming on. "_This_ is your idea of her possibly having something of a crush on you?" he asked, lifting Molly's little overnight case by the handle and waggling it pointedly in the air.

"We don't have time for this now, John. Let's go greet our guest!" Sherlock leapt from the bed enthusiastically and swept out into the sitting room with John in his wake.

"Molly, how lovely to see you again! I want you to meet Dr. Watson. He is the physician for the expedition you are signed on with. Dr. Molly Hooper, Dr. John Watson. Dr. John Watson, Dr. Molly Hooper."

John wondered when Sherlock had turned into a Victorian governess."Yes, Sherlock, Dr. Hooper and I met down at the front door." _The front door you refused to answer, remember? _he thought, narrowing his eyes at his annoying partner.

"I felt it would be a good idea if you each knew someone else besides Greg or myself before the expedition," Sherlock continued, beaming a big, fake smile at Molly, who looked as though she might swoon under his laser-like attention. "And seeing as you're both doctors…"

Despite his earlier denial, Sherlock was clearly up to _something_. But what? The "cover story" Sherlock was spouting was totally at odds with his behaviour, and John was so confused he didn't know what to think. Molly obviously didn't see it, but Sherlock had no interest in women; even if he did, he wouldn't have the gall to invite a date for himself to the flat under John's nose…would he? He certainly couldn't have invited Molly as a potential date for John! John might be bisexual, but he had not looked back once since he turned over his heart, his body and his life to Sherlock months ago. John's head began to pound in earnest.

"Don't be absurd, John. I'm not trying to replace you with Molly or hook you up with her." Unnoticed, Sherlock had come up beside John to whisper in his ear. In spite of himself, John shivered with the familiar _frisson_ that occurred whenever Sherlock was able to deduce his very thoughts with pinpoint accuracy.

"John has been living here since November, when he interviewed for the position of doctor for the next expedition," Sherlock explained to Molly, putting an arm expansively around John's shoulders.

_Well, there goes the sex before dinner, _Molly thought sadly. _But later, after John goes to his own room__…__!_

"So, are you a climber then, like Sherlock and me?" Molly asked John. Her unfortunate choice of words came out sounding horribly condescending.

"Oh, John can hold his own, isn't that right, John?" Sherlock said quickly. The mountaineer was annoyed that Molly would mention her mountain-climbing ability in the same sentence with his own, and not at all happy that she appeared to be talking down to John.

To John, the situation made absolutely no sense. It was suddenly clear to him that for some reason Sherlock didn't want to just come out and tell Molly Hooper that he and Sherlock were considerably more than flatmates. But if Sherlock was trying to hide the relationship, he was doing a really shite job. In the short time before John served dinner, Sherlock made sure that he bumped his shoulder against John at every chance. He put a hand on John's back or arm whenever he was trying to illustrate a point, and finished up with the same comment, "…isn't that right, John?" at least half a dozen times in almost as many minutes.

Molly paid no notice at first. _Sherlock is just being friendly with his expedition doctor; yes, that must be it._ She smiled tremulously at Sherlock, batted her eyelashes, twirled her hair and essentially attempted to ignore John completely, although as the evening went on, that became considerably more difficult. At dinner she could not help but see Sherlock resting a hand on John's thigh, or brushing their fingers together while eating off John's plate. As for John, although he didn't move away from Sherlock, it appeared to Molly that he was somewhat puzzled and not entirely comfortable.

Sherlock insisted on helping when John got up to clear the table, and he instructed Molly to go wait in the sitting room. "We'll bring you out a nice cup of tea. John makes excellent tea. I've never had better…" he paused meaningfully. "Tea, that is," he finished up finally.

John left off scraping the plates when Sherlock slipped into the kitchen and closed the sliding glass doors behind him."What do you think you're doing, Sherlock? All evening I've felt like you've been trying to scent mark me! And you're confusing Molly and upsetting her a great deal, even though she's doing her best to hide it."

"I thought if she came here and saw that we are clearly together, she would cease her ridiculous infatuation without my having to explain anything to her."

John shook his head. There was just _so much_ Sherlock didn't understand about human interaction.

Sherlock accurately interpreted the look on John's face. "Not good?"

"No, it's really not."

"I don't understand. Isn't this kinder than to just tell her 'I don't fancy you in the least'?"

"Possibly, Sherlock; but making her think she was coming here for a date? And an overnight date besides?"

"I'm sure I didn't do that. All I said was…"

"I don't want to know what you said," John replied tightly. "I want you to straighten this out right now." Sherlock thought he read a week…no, _two_ weeks…of compulsory celibacy in the look John was giving him.

"John, there's no reason to be upset with me. I had no idea she was going to respond so aggressively as to bring an overnight case. She's normally such a little mouse. Who would have thought?"

"You clearly have no idea the effect you have on people when you turn on the charm," John said, sounding exasperated.

"Bugger!" Sherlock exclaimed in frustration. "I didn't want to upset her because I still need her to let me into the morgue periodically. She's always been very generous with her time and the specialized equipment they have there."

"I'm sure she has been, especially if you've been treating her like she has half a chance with you, which she does not, and never did."

"Before I was with you I was willing to let her think whatever she liked, but we're together now, and I wanted that to be clear to her before the expedition started. However, it appears that all I've managed to do is disappoint you," Sherlock said glumly.

_So __that's__ what this was all about! Bloody hell, __it __is impossible to stay mad at Sherlock, _John thought.

"Also, someone tries sneaking into my tent at Base Camp at least once a season," Sherlock added matter-of-factly. "I really didn't want her trying that."

"Don't worry, I'll protect you this year," John said, smiling reluctantly.

A look of relief crossed Sherlock's face because John no longer appeared to be upset with him. He bent down for a kiss, and it wasn't long before tongues were involved.

Naturally, Molly picked that moment to slide open the heavily-textured glass doors and walk in. "Are you sure there's nothing I can…oh…_oh!_"

The hapless pathologist burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen. John hurried after her. "Molly…Molly, wait!" He caught up with her before she could run out of the flat without her coat (or the sad little overnight case).

"How c-could he?" Molly sobbed.

John pulled her into his arms, letting her cry and smear makeup all over his third-favorite oatmeal jumper. "He didn't mean to mislead you," John said gently. "He was trying to be subtle, but he doesn't do subtle well."

"I'm s-so h-humiliated," she hiccoughed.

"Please don't be," John tried to soothe her. "He was honestly trying to let you down gently. He just got it all wrong."

John rocked her in his arms for a few moments. Sherlock came out of the kitchen, saw them and scowled. With a sharp tilt of his head, John indicated that Sherlock should to go to their bedroom and Sherlock did so, carelessly tossing Molly's coat and overnight case outside the door before closing it behind him a bit louder than necessary.

When Molly was able to talk coherently again she said, "I want to apologize for being so mean to you tonight, John."

John smiled a bit at Molly's idea of 'mean'. "It's all right, Molly. I am resigned to the fact that no one has eyes for anyone else when Sherlock is in the room."

Molly took a deep breath. "I'll go now, shall I?" she said, "While I still have a shred of dignity left."

"This is not your fault, Molly," John said firmly. "And I insist you allow me to escort you home."

Molly opened her mouth, possibly to demur, but John said, "If you say no, I will just follow you to make sure you get there safely." Molly gave a little nod of her head but she wouldn't meet his eyes. He went to the bedroom to fetch her things and was happy to find them already outside the closed door, because he wasn't sure he was ready to face a sulking Sherlock. Rapping lightly on the door, he called out, "I'm taking Molly home. I'll be be back shortly." There was thundering silence from the other side.

They took a cab to her house. John asked the cabbie to wait while he walked Molly to her door. He apologized once again for Sherlock and added, "I hope you won't change your mind about the expedition because of this. But if you do, I promise you'll get your money back, even the non-refundable deposit." He hoped he wasn't overstepping his authority, but honestly, after what Sherlock had done, he wasn't sure he cared.

"I'll have to think about it," Molly replied. "I've already been granted the time off from work and I still want to climb Everest, but maybe not with Sherlock anymore. There's another British commercial group I've heard about called Moriarty Mountain Expeditions. It's much less expensive and at least I won't have to see Sherlock all day, every day for those two months." Which was ironic, she reflected, because the chance of seeing Sherlock all day, every day for two months was the very reason she had gone into hock up to her ears in order to be able to afford the Baker Street Climbing Consultants rates in the first place. She had a lovely recurring daydream where she snuck into his tent…

John was torn between warning Molly about MME and keeping Sherlock's confidence. If he warned her, it could definitely get back to Moriarty. So he reluctantly kept quiet.

Suddenly Molly blurted, "I'm sorry now I wasted so much time on Sherlock, when there are other people around who are much nicer." She threw John one last apologetic look, then opened the door to her house and slipped inside.

Sherlock was pacing in the entryway by the downstairs door when the cab returned John to Baker Street. He grabbed John and pulled him close, and John heard sniffing noises that didn't sound anything like crying.

"Sherlock, for God's sake, are you smelling me for sex? Please tell me you didn't think anything was going to happen between Molly and me."

Sherlock looked abashed. "I'm sorry, John, but I didn't like seeing you holding her. I know you find women somewhat desirable."

John sighed. "From the moment we met, I knew there'd never be anyone else for me but you — although I'm currently finding it very hard to remember why."

Sherlock's face fell even further, and John shook his head fondly. "C'mon, Sherlock, you know I love you. I just don't understand why you didn't talk to me about this plan of yours ahead of time." They started up the stairs side by side in Sherlock's favorite vertical position: Sherlock's arm around John's shoulders and John's arm around Sherlock's waist. "If you'd only given me a heads-up, I could have helped you work out some way to break it to Molly that wouldn't have been so painful to her. Also, it wouldn't have left me wondering what the bloody hell you were doing the whole time."

"I suppose I'm just too used to going it alone. This relationship thing is more work than I thought it would be," Sherlock said, frowning thoughtfully.

_He'll get tired of this caring lark._

Since New Year's, Sherlock had generally seemed calmer, less possessive, and more sure of John. The problem was that John could not banish Mycroft's words from his head, _may the fleas of a thousand camels infest his armpit hair!_

John pulled himself together and responded, "Well, the way you did it was more than a bit not good."

They passed through the door to 221B and closed it behind them.

"I don't think I will ever understand social cues, John," Sherlock admitted. "More than once you've told me not to be so blunt. I was truly attempting to let her down gently, but she needed to understand before the start of the expedition that there can never be anything between her and me. Bucket list or not, I know I am the only reason she signed on at this particular time."

"I just hope she doesn't quit the expedition," John replied. "She mentioned the possibility of joining Moriarty's group." At Sherlock's sharp look he said, "I didn't tell her anything we talked about, but I did promise her that if she quits BSCC, we will refund all her money, every bit of it, even though it's well past the 'no refund' period. I'm sorry if that puts the expedition in the red, but I am going to have to insist on it."

"It's fine, John; remember, there's a waiting list as long as your arm. Anyone who drops out can easily be replaced almost up to the last second. Replacement candidates are only limited by whether they can get the time off work, and the pensioners on the list don't even have that to worry about." Sherlock frowned. "I just don't understand where I went wrong. I feel that I have failed you somehow."

"It's all right, love," John said gently. Sherlock was at once the most brilliant _and_ the most spectacularly ignorant person John had ever met. "I'm not upset anymore. Go sit on the couch and I'll make us both a nice cuppa."

Sherlock looked almost pathetically grateful and John's heart went out to him. The man had meant well; it had just all gone pear-shaped because he didn't understand the first thing about interactions involving those pesky things called feelings.

But on the bright side, at least John wasn't going to have to watch Molly giving Sherlock lovesick looks and trying to insinuate herself into his presence the entire time they were on the mountain. No matter what she decided to do about the expedition, John was fairly certain she was over that!


	12. Just Another Day in Paradise

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going in a straight line, and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and PM'd me! I love hearing from you. I live for feedback, it says so right in my profile.

Author's note: Ninety-nine percent of the angst in this story is right here in Chapter 12. Those of you who wanted some angst—here it is. Those of you who don't want angst—this is it for the entire story.

Special note to the Dairy Council of either the US or the UK: sorry, you will never convince me that three glasses a day of whole milk will help anyone lose weight.

* * *

Chapter Excerpt: "I think you should move out now, John. Under the circumstances." Sherlock's eyes were red-rimmed but icy.

_He__'__ll get tired of this caring lark. _

Black spots appeared in front of John's eyes and his knees suddenly went wobbly. He sat down abruptly on the coffee table. "Under what circumstances?"

"Oh, don't play the innocent with me. When were you planning to let me know — perhaps after one last pity shag?"

* * *

_Mid-February_

In the end, Molly decided to withdraw from BSCC and sign with Moriarty Mountain Expeditions. Greg was upset when he found out that John had promised her all her money back, but he gave in with reasonably good grace once Sherlock explained the situation. As Sherlock had predicted, they had no problem replacing her at all. But that wasn't the point to John, who felt more than a little uncomfortable that Molly was joining — albeit unknowingly — what might possibly be a criminal expedition.

Quite aside from that, he wondered if she would even acknowledge him when they ran into each other on Everest, which Sherlock said was bound to happen at Base Camp. He was still convinced that everyone was going to come to John with their medical issues and seemed to be very proud of the fact. Which made the entire quarrel all the more puzzling.

John no longer kept to a fixed study time. He had read and absorbed all the material recommended by Mike Stamford and was currently constructing a flow chart of various symptoms, what conditions they might mean, and their possible treatments cleverly cross-referenced with the requisite drugs. It was shaping up to be a good chart, thorough and easy to follow. As a novice when it came to high altitude medicine, John wanted to make sure he didn't overlook any possibilities when it was time for him to start diagnosing and treating on site, because many serious diseases of high altitude appear to be no more threatening at first than a headache or a cough. He was pleased with the chart, and both Greg and Sherlock were watching its progress with interest.

Ironically, just like a disease of high altitude, the problem started innocently enough. Greg had left for a last-minute confab with the shipper who was going to pack and send BSCC's five tons of food and supplies to Nepal. He told them not to expect him back until the next day, so John and Sherlock were doing what came naturally to them: lying in each other's arms on the sofa.

They weren't even snogging. Sherlock was running his fingers through John's hair, admiring the pattern in which it grew, the adorable, elfin way it was starting to curl over his ears, and how it consisted of every shade of blond, gold, light brown and wheat known to man. He had worked out the colour ratio at approximately 32.19% shades of blonde, to 24.21% shades of gold, to 20.25% shades of light brown to 23.25% shades of wheat. And just that winsome little bit of silver (.1%) coming in at the temples. His mind was awash in tranquility and he felt that every cell in his body was perfectly aligned with every cell in John's. Sherlock never wanted this ideal moment to end.

But John's mind had drifted to the chart he was constructing, and to Sherlock's dismay, he suddenly tried to rise. "I'd really like to get back to work on my chart now. I had an idea about…"

"No. Why?" Sherlock protested and pulled him back. "Lestrade is gone for the day; we could even have sex here on the couch right now if we felt like it. I fail to see your hurry."

"I just want to get back to the chart while the idea is still clear in my mind. We can have sex on the couch later if you like," John promised.

"That's not very spontaneous," Sherlock sulked. He couldn't remember John ever putting him off before.

John's mind was already on the chart or he would have noticed the danger signs brewing. "It's important to me, Sherlock, to be the best expedition doctor possible. It's the only way I can repay your trust in giving me the job despite my lack of background in high altitude medicine."

"Oh, please, John!" Sherlock said scornfully. "Any half-competent mountaineer can diagnose diseases of high altitude. Most of the time when you get a patient, everyone else will already know what the problem is. If you are truly that clueless, you can grab almost anyone wandering by the medical tent at random and ask."

John stiffened in Sherlock's arms, and not in the good way. He fixed his gaze on Sherlock's face.

"So you're planning to pay me £18,000 for two months of work, and you're saying it doesn't even matter whether I know what I'm doing or not," he said in a disturbingly even tone of voice. "Tell me, Sherlock, what happened to my being 'an invaluable member' of your team?"

"Wait, what?" Sherlock hadn't really thought about what he said; he just didn't want John to get up.

But the famous Watson temper had no intention of being denied after so many months of hibernation. John was off the couch and on his way out the door, grabbing his coat as he left.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"Out. I need some air." John stomped off.

Sherlock gave John enough time to get down the stairs, then went to the window and watched as the man disappeared down the street radiating anger. He swallowed hard. He'd always found it difficult to apologise — in fact, he'd been told several times that it was one of his least appealing characteristics — but as soon as John came back, Sherlock intended to apologise unhesitatingly (because…_John_). After all, he hadn't meant one word of what he'd said; it wasn't even true, but he had just been unable to stop himself from saying it. Sherlock returned to the couch and curled himself into a ball to wait out John's anger. He felt quite proud of himself for not panicking even though they'd just had their first real argument (and there was just that faint possibility that it might have been his own fault besides). He knew John would be back. Then they'd have their very first make-up sex, which he had read was really quite hot, and everything would be fine.

**~~~/~~~**

John walked aimlessly in the cold, thin February air until he found himself in front of the coffee shop where he had met with Mycroft three months earlier. He'd stomped out not really dressed warmly enough for the weather, and coffee sounded good to him right then.

He sat nursing his cup at the same table by the front window as before. Happily, no mysterious black car idled in the restricted parking area just outside. There was, however, a man sitting several tables away, watching him alertly. Lost in thought, John didn't notice.

One of the things that John had instinctively understood from the very beginning was that Sherlock lacked a filter between his brain and his mouth. That understanding was why John had always been able to tolerate Sherlock's sharp tongue and thoughtless comments in the past.

But Sherlock had never been disparaging of John's abilities as a physician before. As far as John was concerned, his medical knowledge was the only thing he really had to offer the expedition, and Sherlock brushed it aside like it was nothing! The sudden attack was certainly painful, but if he had thought it through before losing his temper, he would have realised that Sherlock only reacted as he had because he wanted more attention. He just got it spectacularly wrong, as usual, when it came to feelings. That was Sherlock, take him or leave him, and John never wanted to leave him. He would go right back and apologise for walking out.

He drained his coffee cup and was about to get up from the table when a slim, dark-haired stranger slipped into the seat that John had been thinking of as Mycroft's. The man looked so sly that John was immediately on guard.

"Hieee, I'm Jim Moriarty," he announced with a manic little wave of his hand.

_Ah. _John nodded curtly. "John Watson."

"Oh, so very humble…_Doctor_ Watson. I've been wanting to speak with you privately for quite a while now, but you always seem to be joined at the hip with Sherlock Holmes. I was very lucky to stumble upon you alone for once. I _do_ hope there's been no trouble in paradise? You were certainly looking like a _thundercloud_ there for a few minutes."

John was not in the mood for games. "What do you want, Mr. Moriarty?"

"Call me Jim, please." He waited, but John did not reciprocate. Moriarty frowned just a bit. "Do you know who I am?" The tone of the question was curious, not offended.

"I know that you run a commercial expedition like Sherlock's."

"Not exactly like Sherlock's; not yet. But one day I would like it to be." His voice took on an unconvincing confidential quality. "I realise that my expeditions are seen as somewhat, shall we say, ill-equipped. So I was thinking this coming season might be a good time to start offering more…amenities."

John wondered how anyone could make the word "amenities" sound so nasty.

"Amenities?" he echoed blankly.

"Yes, I believe it's time to add a doctor to my …"

John cut him off. "I'm already going as part of Sherlock's expedition."

"But all's fair in love and war, Dr. Watson. I am prepared to offer you double what Sherlock is paying you."

"Wouldn't matter if you did. I can't join your expedition."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't _and _won't, because I'm already signed with Sherlock."

Moriarty smiled unpleasantly. "Signed with? Is that what they're calling it nowadays?"

"That's it; this conversation is over." John rose abruptly, heading for the door.

Moriarty stood and blocked him. Something ugly glinted in his disturbingly black eyes. "Well, I just thought since I already have one of Sherlock's clients, why not his doctor as well? Molls tells me you're a great bloke."

"Molls? You mean _Molly Hooper_?" John's voice rose in astonishment.

"Yes, isn't she just the most adorable thing? We've started going out now," smirked Moriarty.

"Well, congratulations," said John, without any noticeable enthusiasm.

"Molls said you insisted on refunding all her money when she withdrew. That was very good of you." It actually came out sounding more like "you sucker," but John didn't care. He just wanted to get away from this venomous man. He ducked around Moriarty and shot out the door of the coffee shop.

Happily, Moriarty did not follow, and John had time to process their conversation. It sounded to him as though Moriarty was looking for last-minute ways to throw Sherlock's expedition into disarray. He couldn't wait to talk to Sherlock about it, but they had other issues that needed addressing first. There would be apologies, spectacular make-up sex, and then they could consider Moriarty. _Priorities!_

Impulsively John headed for the local Tesco, thinking of putting together a special post-fight dinner. On the way there he ran into Greg, who was just coming out of the shipping office.

"Hey, John. I think I finally got all the details hammered out with the shipper and I'm heading home now." He looked around and smiled. "It's strange to see you without Sherlock." It definitely sounded better when Greg said it than it had coming from Moriarty's mouth.

"You know Sherlock never comes shopping with me if he can help it," John shrugged. It was really none of Greg's business that there'd been a fight.

"Is something wrong, mate? You're looking a bit off."

Impulsively John began telling Greg about his unsettling conversation with Moriarty. "…and then he offered me double what Sherlock is paying me…"

"What an arsehole," Greg interrupted before John could go any further. "He normally hangs around with people who would sell their own gran for a couple of quid. I'll wager he was shocked to run into someone who couldn't be bought."

"Thanks, mate," John said, pleased. He explained to Greg his suspicion that Moriarty was attempting to sabotage BSCC's expedition by purposely stealing the doctor at a point far too late for Sherlock to do anything about it.

He concluded the story with Moriarty's comment about dating Molly Hooper. "And now that I've met him, I'm really sorry I didn't try harder to convince Molly to stay with BSCC," he finished up.

"Don't worry about it, mate. Not your fault; Sherlock chased her away all by himself."

John nodded glumly, glanced at his expedition watch (which informed him, among other things, that London was situated at 68 feet above sea level) and said something vague about needing more milk. They actually did go through full cream milk by the gallon to help Sherlock take in much-needed fat and calories.

Greg hailed a cab and gave the driver the address to the house he shared with Mycroft. Then he pulled out his mobile to call Sherlock.

"What," Sherlock demanded grumpily.

"Hello to you, too, sunshine," Greg responded. "Say, you'll never guess what just happened."

"Obviously, since I never guess."

"Moriarty offered John a job at twice what you are paying him and…"

There was a sharp click on the line as Sherlock disconnected.

_Hmm._ Greg had certainly spent enough time with Sherlock in the BSCC administration tent at Everest Base Camp discussing Moriarty's sleazy behavior, and he was surprised at this sudden complete lack of interest. He shrugged and put away his mobile. John would tell Sherlock the whole story when he got back anyway.

**~~~/~~~**

John returned to 221B carrying a bag of groceries with ingredients for dinner. He was not particularly surprised to find Sherlock still sulking on the couch. But Sherlock looked so distressed that John was sorry he had gone shopping instead of coming right back. It was their first real fight, after all; the first time John had truly lost his temper since they had met, and judging from Sherlock's body language, he wasn't taking it very well. Not bothering to unpack the groceries, John threw the bag haphazardly into the refrigerator and walked over to kiss Sherlock, who jerked away from him.

"I think you should move out now, John. Under the circumstances." Sherlock's eyes were red-rimmed but icy.

_He__'__ll get tired of this caring lark. _

Black spots appeared in front of John's eyes and his knees suddenly went wobbly. He sat down abruptly on the coffee table. "Under what circumstances?"

"Oh, don't play the innocent with me. When were you planning to let me know — perhaps after one last pity shag?"

John was stunned. "_Me_ give _you_ a pity shag? What are you on about?"

"I know you're going to sign with Moriarty; don't pretend otherwise. Lestrade called and told me."

"Greg told you that I was planning to sign with Moriarty," John said blankly.

"No, he told me that Moriarty offered you the job for double what BSCC is paying you."

"And then what?"

"And then I rang off so I wouldn't have to hear him tell me that you had accepted the offer."

John felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "You actually thought I would do that?"

"I've always thought you might leave, John. I had just hoped that it would take you longer than three months to decide you made a mistake and want out of the relationship."

"But I don't want out of the relationship," John said firmly.

"I behaved deplorably to you earlier. Why wouldn't you?"

"Because I love you. How could you think even for a minute that I would leave you for any reason, let alone a better job offer?"

"I eventually chase everyone away, although I never used to care." There were tears in Sherlock's eyes and he wiped them away angrily. "I wasn't worried at first when you went out. But then Greg called and told me about Moriarty's offer. And I had already realised that what I said to you was inexcusable."

"It was a bit not good, yeah, but if I'd thought about it for more than 30 seconds, I would have known why you said it. I'm sorry that I lost my temper and walked out — that certainly didn't help the situation."

"Why are you apologizing to me, John? What I said was unconscionable."

"Everyone tells me I'm the down-to-earth one, but I didn't act that way. It took me far too long to figure out that you didn't mean it."

"I most certainly did _not_ mean it! I just wanted you to stay on the couch with me."

"So of course you said the exact thing that would be guaranteed to chase me off," John said, smiling wryly.

"Yes, well…I have been reliably told that I get that kind of thing wrong a lot."

John slipped off the coffee table and settled next to Sherlock on the couch. "We must be the most fucked-up couple ever. It's a wonder how we made it this far! You have been thinking that I would leave you from the moment we met, although I have not faintest idea why; and I have been worried that you would leave because your brother warned me you'd get tired of me."

Sherlock groaned. "I swear my parents produced Mycroft first just to torture me. I am going to have a serious talk with him."

John smiled crookedly. "Well, clearly you and I need to talk about this first. I can't have you thinking I'm going to leave you, because leaving you is the furthest thing from my mind. So let me make this unmistakably clear: I love you. I believe that what we have is for life if we want it to be. I only walked out because I was afraid I would say something as hurtful to you as you had said to me. And I didn't want to do that."

"I don't find it easy to apologise, John, but I am truly sorry I put you in that position."

John chuckled at the bizarre apology and nudged Sherlock with his shoulder. "I can see how it might be difficult to apologise when you're always right — or think you are," he added in a gently teasing tone.

_Maybe this apologising thing isn't that bad after all, as long as it's John. Just John. _"So is it time for the make-up sex yet?" Sherlock asked hopefully. "I've read it can be quite spectacular."

"Almost…but I want to know about Victor first." John reached out and took one of Sherlock's enormous hands in both of his.

Sherlock groaned. "I would prefer not."

"Don't put me off again, Sherlock," John said firmly. "I can't see any other reason for you to believe that I would ever leave you unless you'd had a very bad experience in the past. And I know that Victor was your only relationship."

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "You have probably built up the import of the situation with Victor in your mind because I have been so resistant to talking about it. If so, this is going to seem very anticlimactic. The truth is embarrassingly mundane. In fact, I still find it difficult to believe that anything so plebeian should have happened to me," he said, recovering his usual unconscious arrogance.

"I'm listening." John let go of Sherlock's hand and sat back expectantly.

"I'm sure you have heard from more than one source that I can be extremely difficult to deal with — in any case, before I met you, I used to hear it constantly. Mycroft, that consummate diplomat, was the worst; always predicting disaster because I couldn't keep my thoughts to myself. I got tired of hearing it. I wanted to prove to people — to Mycroft in particular — that there could be someone for me. But nobody truly interested me and let's face it, I did scare everyone away the minute I came out with my first set of deductions.

"Victor seemed different. Oh, he was a celebrity hound and I knew it, but he only laughed when I pointed it out to him as rudely as possible. He actively pursued me, and I eventually fell in with him because it was easy. But he _was_ a fanboy — and sex with a star is all a fanboy wants. In fact, I often counted on that later when I…well, you know."

"Anyway, I couldn't stop bragging to Mycroft that I had found someone, but of course I really hadn't. Mycroft knew all he needed to do was sit back and wait for it all to fall apart."

"So what happened?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Victor walked out on me while I was doing the Seven Summits — you remember, the seven highest summits on each of the seven continents in seven months. I heard he eventually hooked up with with the second lead of some crap daytime television show. I was not broken-hearted; but after all the bragging I had done to Mycroft, I was humiliated."

"All right, Sherlock, I can see why you would be embarrassed having something so pedestrian happen to you, but it doesn't explain why you thought I would ever leave you after everything we've been to each other. Do I really seem like a shallow fanboy to you?"

"God, no, John. But I got confused. After all, even Victor didn't stay with me when logically I should have been everything he ever wanted. So I started to wonder if there was something horribly wrong with me; that maybe I really was the freak everyone has always accused me of being. And I certainly never believed anyone like you could love me."

"Like me?" John still couldn't understand what Sherlock saw in him.

"When we first met, I said I had discerned everything important about you as soon as I laid eyes on you. In fact, I missed almost everything important about you. Your brave heart. Your compassionate soul. Your caring nature. Victor proved that someone could tolerate me, and I thought that was something to brag about. Of course, it's been completely different with you. I have trouble believing it every day when I wake up and you're still beside me. And I want everyone to know that you love me, not just that I managed to find someone who could put up with me.

"When we had the fight and you walked out, and then Greg told me about Moriarty's offer, I really thought you were leaving me because by then I knew I had said something unforgivable."

"Sherlock, we had an argument," John cut in. "Every couple argues. If they say they don't, they're either lying to you or lying to themselves. Or maybe they've stopped talking to each other at all."

"I never argued with Victor."

"The way it works is that you only argue with people who matter to you," John explained patiently.

"Well, I don't like it, John. I never want to argue with you again."

"In that unlikely case, you'll have to remember that once in a while I might want to do something other than what you want and allow me to do it. If I do everything your way all the time I'll disappear into you. Eventually I'll bore you silly and then I'll lose you for sure."

"You'll never lose me," Sherlock said fervently. "Listen to me, John. I thought it was me; something wrong about me that I couldn't find anyone, but it's all very clear to me now. I didn't want a friend. I didn't want a companion. I didn't want a lover. I just wanted _you_, John. I hadn't met you yet, but it was you I wanted all along."

John stared at Sherlock open-mouthed. Damn, when _sentiment_ came and hit Sherlock, it hit hard! But he still had some questions, so he fought off the urge to snog Sherlock into the sofa and asked, "How long were you with Victor before you started the Seven Summits?" He was, he had to admit, still jealous of the time that Sherlock spent with anyone else.

Sherlock, who had been absolutely certain that John was about to snog him into the sofa, marveled once again at John's ability to take him by surprise. "Oh, a few months, I suppose. I deleted that as totally useless data. But you and I have been together one hundred and five days, twenty-two hours, seventeen minutes and forty-five…no forty-six…seconds."

John reached out and pulled Sherlock's head down until their foreheads were touching. "You know, I think it's time for that make-up sex." He rubbed their noses together for good measure.

"Here on the couch right now?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"Yes, assuming this is spontaneous enough for you," John grinned. "We can have couch sex _and_ make-up sex all in one go."

Sherlock did not need to be invited twice. While hastily unbuttoning John's shirt, he commented, "By the way, the day after tomorrow is Valentine's Day — I hope you aren't expecting roses and chocolates, because I absolutely refuse to participate in any holiday which has been manufactured for no other purpose than to con people into buying flowers and overpriced confectionery."

"That's fine, Sherlock." John paused momentarily in the act of trying to get into Sherlock's trousers. "My Valentine's Day plan is to attempt to shag you to death."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he pulled John's shirt off hard enough to pop off the last few buttons, which he suddenly found he was too impatient to unfasten. "Well, that would be tremendously ambitious of you, John." And it sounded not so much like a threat as an invitation.

It was not long before they were so deeply absorbed in each other that John's inner Mycroft had to shout in order to remind him that Sherlock would eventually get tired of this caring lark. John told his inner Mycroft to fuck off once and for all. Soon after that he was crying out Sherlock's name like a prayer, and then his mind went wonderfully blank for a long, long time.

* * *

**End note:**  
The title of the chapter comes from Phil Vassar's song "Just Another Day in Paradise," an absolutely angst-free song you can find on YouTube by searching for "just another day in paradise phil vassar official video". It has nothing to do with the story, really, but it's where I got the chapter title from. It does mention milk, though, so maybe it's not totally off topic.


	13. Last-Minute Bits and Bobs

Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story going and to johnsarmylady for keeping it British.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

The book John is reading in this chapter is _The Lost Explorer: Finding Mallory on Mount Everest_ by Conrad Anker and David Roberts

* * *

Chapter Excerpt: John loved Sherlock with every bone in his body, but he wasn't blind to the mountaineer's faults. Sherlock was abrupt and impatient, and John couldn't help but notice that Greg had been trying to keep him from interacting with the clients as much as possible before they got to Nepal. "What's going to happen when we arrive in Nepal and Sherlock is face to face with these people?" he asked.

"Sherlock is a wonder with the clients once the expedition is underway," Greg said, "if you can imagine that. He is kindness personified on the trek even when many of the clients fall ill along the way and slow everything down, and once we get on the mountain, he is everyone's cheerleader if they lag behind or find it hard going."

"Well," John said, "I admit I didn't expect you to say anything like that, especially considering how hard you've been trying to keep Sherlock from talking to any of them up till now."

"Can you blame me, after seeing what happened with Molly?" Greg asked wryly.

"Point taken," John agreed.

* * *

_Mid-February to Mid-March_

Valentine's Day came and went, and Sherlock survived John's attempt to shag him to death. John lived through it as well, but it was a close call. He made a joke about not being able to get it up for a week that sent Sherlock flying to his laptop to google "aphrodisiacs." He actually went out shopping and brought home the top ten ingredients with aphrodisiac properties, purchased at random and without any idea of how to prepare them. These he presented earnestly to John, who was amused beyond belief at the eclectic collection, which included items as diverse as vanilla beans and hot chili peppers. (Some of the other ingredients, however, would make lovely meals in the days to come, the salmon and asparagus in particular.) He also brought back one perfect rose and a small box of ridiculously expensive chocolate truffles from the exclusive chocolatier, Artisan du Chocolat. "As long as I was out anyway, John," he shrugged. John sampled a truffle and announced solemnly that perhaps it wouldn't take quite a week for his refractory period to end after all. Sherlock looked so immensely relieved that John almost —_almost_ — felt bad for teasing him, no matter how gently.

**~~~/~~~**

The main topic under consideration around 221B after John's meeting with Moriarty was why he had approached John in such a blatant manner. Sherlock didn't agree with John's theory that Moriarty had been attempting to throw the expedition into disarray at the last minute.

"He can't possibly have believed you would actually leave BSCC," Sherlock mused. "He made it clear to you that he is aware of our relationship. Obviously he has been keeping an eye on us while attempting to find a time that he could get to you without my being there. And we have certainly not been hiding anything." John smiled, remembering their first morning together, when they stood outside the door of 221B doing some low-level but very public snogging.

"You must have a few ideas of your own about Moriarty's motives," Greg said to Sherlock.

"I have seven…no, five…no, three," Sherlock admitted without elaborating.

"A shot across the bows, perhaps?" John asked thoughtfully.

Sherlock nodded approvingly. "Very good, John. That is my number one idea. I have made it clear that I intend to figure out who has been endangering lives by stealing food and supplies on Everest, and I believe he was butting heads with me through you."

"Yeah, Sherlock wasn't actually subtle about it last season," Greg said. "He rather unwisely told anybody who would listen that he was eventually going to get to the bottom of it."

"I was upset after the death of that client of his," Sherlock said grimly. "There has to be a way to stop that man from jeopardizing anyone else."

"What happened?" John asked.

"The poor bloke was too wasted to go any further. He just lay down and eventually froze to death," Greg explained.

"How is that possible?" John asked, honestly confused. "With guides and all the other climbers around him?"

"Well, I never would have let any member of my expedition get into that state in the first place. Long before that I would have sent him back to the closest camp with a guide to lead him," Sherlock said. "But not all expeditions are like mine, John. Moriarty runs his expedition on a shoestring. He never hires enough guides to keep an eye on his clients. An expedition like that is best suited to highly experienced climbers, because MME offers little to no support once the clients arrive. But that is not the problem. There are many experienced climbers who would do well in such an expedition.

"The problem is that these cut-rate prices attract people like moths to a flame. Moriarty will take on anyone who can meet his price, and that price covers little more than your name on the climbing permit, transportation to Base Camp, and tents and basic supplies at each camp. He doesn't care whether his clients are suited for that kind of climb or not. I've refused to take on clients who weren't even qualified for a guided expedition, who later showed up with MME."

John's thoughts immediately went to Molly. "What about Molly?**" **He looked from Sherlock to Greg. "Does she know enough?"

"I don't think she does," Greg admitted reluctantly. "She knows more than enough to climb with an organised group, but I think she might get into some trouble with MME. She'll definitely need more attention than they will be able to give her."

"Perhaps Moriarty will keep a closer eye on her because they're going out together," John said hopefully.

Sherlock snorted. "Seriously, John? You believed that? Moriarty is gay! Molly is too naïve to realise it, but he only asked her to go out with him so he could pump her for information about me."

"There must be something we can do for her!" John exclaimed.

Both Greg and Sherlock smiled at him. "What?" he asked**, **looking between his colleagues in puzzlement.

Sherlock said, "John, it's obvious to anyone who has ever met you that you will do whatever you can to protect the people you take under your wing. I wouldn't dream of trying to stop you if you are determined to help her."

"Well, we can't let her just wander around on Everest left to her own devices," John protested.

Greg answered him. "Fortunately, most people who summit do so at the same time, on the same couple of days — the days when weather permits. That's usually a very limited window of opportunity. She may be without a personal support system like a guide assigned to assist her, but she won't be going up by herself."

"However, that did nothing to help Stephan Moffatt," Sherlock pointed out grimly. "Quite a lot of people walked right by him while he was dying, even the ones who realised he was still alive, because no one knew him or felt responsible for him."

John was more determined than ever to protect the kind-hearted pathologist. "We can't let anything like that happen to Molly," he said. "I know she withdrew from our expedition and we refunded her money, but I don't think that absolves us from responsibility."

"Depending on when she decides to summit, we might be able watch over her anyway," Sherlock said, looking thoughtful. "This year I accepted fewer clients than usual in order to keep an eye on Moriarty. So I cut back a bit on guides, both Western and Sherpa, but I will still have five guides for only six climbers. John, you'll meet the other guides when we get to Kathmandu. I signed on two Western guides and then there are two Sherpa guides. And me, of course. Lestrade can also join in a pinch."

Then Greg and Sherlock exchanged a significant glance and Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Go ahead, Lestrade, tell him."

John said, "Tell me what?"

"Well, we were going to save this as a surprise to you when you got there, but you'll be able to do some climbing as well, John," Greg said.

"No," John objected, "my name would need to be on the BSCC climbing permit in order for me to go any higher than Base Camp."

"But it is," Greg said.

"Sherlock?" John looked up at the mountaineer questioningly.

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair affectionately. "Yes, I added your name to the permit as well. Why not?"

"Why not? Because each extra name after the first seven costs BSCC £6200, and I'd only be able to do a limited amount of climbing at best!"

Sherlock shrugged. "You are certainly capable of going higher — easily as high as Camp One as long as you try it the first time with a guide or a more experienced climber. I added your name to the permit right after you asked what our sleeping arrangements would be if you actually were to make it to a higher camp."

John stared at him in stupefaction. He hadn't been totally serious when he asked Sherlock about going higher; it had been an impulsive question, and rather embarrassingly, he'd been thinking more about sleeping arrangements than climbing.

But now that he knew his name was on the permit, the idea of going higher than Base Camp grabbed him and wouldn't let go.

**~~~/~~~**

A couple of days later John was in his armchair reading _The Lost Explorer_, the true story of the 1999 discovery of George Mallory's body seventy-five years after his disappearance on Everest. He was completely engrossed in the tale when he heard Sherlock snort in derision.

"What?"

Sherlock pointed to his computer screen. "According to this Everest blog, some moron is going to attempt to snowboard down the mountain from the summit this season." He snorted again. "I sense a patient coming your way — assuming they ever find the body, that is."

And that's how it came to John's attention that there were blogs from Everest. He hadn't been able to think about anything except Sherlock, climbing, or studying for almost five months, but now that the most intensive phase of his training was over and he had some spare time, he wanted to see these websites.

He went to stand behind Sherlock, wrapped his arms around his neck and read over his shoulder.

"SPECIAL BULLETIN: Robert Kingsley is going to attempt the first continuous snowboard descent of the world's highest peak during the May 2011 climbing season. He will summit on foot but then intends to snowboard down without once getting off the board. In previous seasons other snowboarders have attempted this feat but always ended up having to dismount due to lack of snow at various points on the way down."

"Interesting," John said. But he was referring to the website, not the article.

The next morning when Sherlock woke up, he was alone in the bed. The top sheet was no longer tucked in, having worked its way loose in the middle of some particularly robust activities the night before. Wrapping the sheet around himself, he wandered out into the sitting room and found John hunched intently over his laptop.

"Jaaaaaawn," he whined. "What are you doing up? You don't have to be up. Come back to bed with me."

"I've been looking at websites about other expeditions to Everest and I noticed that most of them have blogs that are quite exciting, whereas the BSCC blog is a bit…dry."

It took Sherlock a while to process the statement because he had been entranced by the way John's hair sparkled in the morning sunlight coming through the windows. Then it registered.

"But _I_ write that blog."

"I guessed as much. The entries are all temperature charts, the biomechanics of the muscular and skeletal system under cold-weather conditions, and the like." John waited hopefully and Sherlock did not disappoint.

"So, you're thinking you want to write the blog this season."

"Yeah, it would be something I could do to help in my spare time once you move to the higher camps, since I'm certainly not going to have patients eight hours a day every day. And the first thing I want to do is change the title."

"Why? What's wrong with _The Science of Climbing_?"

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, check out the counter. The numbers are dismal — hardly anybody is even looking at your blog. At least let's give it a title that might interest someone."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "So what would _you_ call it?"

"I dunno…how about _BSCC Communiqués from Everest_?"

"Tedious."

"_BSCC Everest Updates_?"

"Dull."

"_BSCC Chatter from Everest_?"

"Inane."

"_BSCC Dispatches From the Rooftop of the World_?"

A moment of silence, then "…Acceptable."

And that is how John became the official blogger for the Baker Street Climbing Consultants 2011 Everest expedition. But first, he went back to bed with Sherlock.

**~~~/~~~**

The closer it came to the time to leave, the less interest Sherlock showed in any of the necessary last-minute administrative tasks, such as keeping track of everyone's arrival dates in Kathmandu to make sure they were all scheduled to show up within the span of a day or two. John and Greg contacted the six expedition clients and two Western guides to make sure of their flight numbers and arrival times. Greg had made up dossiers on each of the clients which included copies of their passport photos that would help identify them when they got off their flights at Tribhuvan Airport in Nepal.

Sherlock unsurprisingly begged off such tedious organisational tasks as phone checks, leaving John and Greg to go it alone. They didn't mind, though, because they could get more done without Sherlock's exasperated sighs and constant complaints of tedium going on in the background.

John also took advantage of this time with Greg to ask him some questions about what to expect on the expedition. And what to expect from _Sherlock_ on the expedition! John loved Sherlock with every bone in his body, but he wasn't blind to the mountaineer's faults. Sherlock was abrupt and impatient, and John couldn't help but notice that Greg had been trying to keep him from interacting with the clients as much as possible before they got to Nepal. "What's going to happen when we arrive in Nepal and Sherlock is face to face with these people?" he asked.

"Sherlock is a wonder with the clients once the expedition is underway," Greg said, "if you can imagine that. He is kindness personified on the trek even when many of the clients fall ill along the way and slow everything down; and once we get on the mountain, he is everyone's cheerleader if they lag behind or find it hard going."

"Well," John said, "I admit I didn't expect you to say anything like that, especially considering how hard you've been trying to keep Sherlock from talking to any of them up till now."

"Can you blame me, after seeing what happened with Molly?" Greg asked wryly.

"Point taken," John agreed.

They had a lot of last-minute tasks to get through, because Greg was scheduled to depart for Nepal in just three days. John was actually surprised at how much Greg had left for this late, because he normally seemed so efficient. The expedition manager was going to leave two weeks before the clients would be arriving to oversee the packing of the expedition supplies onto a yak train and to help the Sherpas set up the BSCC tents at Base Camp.

He would also get things organised for the stocking trips to set up the higher camps that the Sherpas would be making without him, carrying supplies from one high camp to the next so that everything would be ready and waiting for the expedition members when the time came. Then Greg would remain at Base Camp, while Sherlock and John were scheduled for arrival at the airport in time to greet the clients.

Normally Sherlock would have left at the same time as his expedition manager, but this year he asked Greg to go without him as a personal favour, so that he could spend a little more time with John before they were suddenly thrust into the fishbowl of Base Camp, essentially a tent city where there was no such thing as privacy. Everyone at Base Camp knew what everyone else was doing all the time.

During one of the lulls in the seemingly endless eleventh-hour tasks, John said to Greg, "I think I owe you an apology, mate. I've been so tied up in my own training I never thought to ask. When did you train?"

"I trained on weekends here in England. I don't need as much practice or conditioning as anyone who intends to climb, because my job generally precludes leaving Base Camp unless there's an emergency call for more guides up high."

"Isn't it hard to stay behind, watching everyone else go up when you love to climb so much?"

"I already summited Everest once with Sherlock. And my main goal every season has been to return to Mycroft in one piece. Anyway, Mycroft feels better knowing that I'm staying at Base Camp."

"How do you deal with being apart so much? I can't imagine being away from Sherlock for two or three hours, let alone two or three months at a time."

_Ah, young love_. Greg rolled his eyes but smiled. "Well, you're going to have to spend some time apart on the mountain eventually, once Sherlock starts the acclimatisation process in the higher camps. But John, you know those intense feelings for each other fade with time."

John did know, but no matter how level-headed he normally was, he simply could not imagine anything like that ever happening between himself and Sherlock.

* * *

**END NOTES:**

**Stocking trips  
**On Everest, climbing Sherpas go ahead of the clients to set up and stock the higher camps, carrying supplies from one camp to another for climbing teams expected to follow in the days and weeks ahead.

**Price conversions **  
In 2010 and 2011, the time this story takes place, the government of Nepal was charging $70,000 (£43,726) for the basic permit fee which included up to 7 climbers, and an additional $10,000 (£6200) per climber after that.

**Real people who died on Everest  
**People have indeed snowboarded (and skied) down Everest. Some succeeded, and some did not. I just moved the first snowboard attempt to 2011 from the year when it actually happened, which was 2001. Marco Siffredi, the real snowboarder in question, succeeded the first time. However, when he tried it again in 2002, he vanished part-way down the mountain.

I loosely based the story of the climber who died on the English mountaineer David Sharp, who made a solo attempt on Mount Everest in 2006. He was signed with an unguided expedition. He died near the summit, and his death caused quite an uproar, because a number of other climbers heading to and returning from the summit passed him by without giving him any aid even though he was still obviously alive for some of the time after he collapsed.

George Mallory and Andrew "Sandy" Irvine were two early British mountaineers who disappeared on Everest during their final push to summit in 1924. If they summited, they would have beat Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay to it by almost 30 years. To this day it is not known if Mallory and Irvine reached the summit before they died. (Of course, there are plenty of theories about it!)

**Movies  
**The name Mallory may be familiar to you even if you're not into mountains, because around this time last year Benedict Cumberbatch was up for the role of George Mallory in a proposed movie about the ill-fated mountaineer. I have heard nothing about it since, though.

A completely different movie about Everest (cunningly titled _Everest_) is in production and is set for a possible September, 2015 release date. It is based on the real events of the May, 1996 Mount Everest disaster, one of the deadliest seasons ever, made famous by the book _Into Thin Air _by Jon Krakauker. I don't care if the movie ends up sucking or what, I will be standing in line for the first showing. _Into Thin Air_ is the book that got me hooked on mountain climbing stories. (The movie is not being filmed on Everest!)


	14. On Belay

This is the final chapter. It's my last chance to thank my beta, Teek, and johnsarmylady, my Britpicker. Any mistakes or egregious Americanisms are either because I didn't listen to one or the other of them, or I unwisely changed something at the last minute.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and PM'd me! Here's _your_ last chance to let me know what you think. If you've read this far, you must have kinda liked it. Review if convenient. If inconvenient, review anyway.

A special thanks to becgate for the encouragement!

And for the last time: I don't own Sherlock.

* * *

**From the end of the previous chapter:**

"How do you deal with being apart so much? I can't imagine being away from Sherlock for two or three hours, let alone two or three months at a time."

_Ah, young love_. Greg rolled his eyes but smiled. "Well, you're going to have to spend some time apart on the mountain eventually, once Sherlock starts the acclimatisation process in the higher camps. But John, you know those intense feelings for each other fade with time."

John did know, but no matter how level-headed he normally was, he simply could not imagine anything like that ever happening between himself and Sherlock.

* * *

_Mid- to Late March_

That night John was reading his mountaineering book when without preamble Sherlock said, "We have to get married."

John's heart started to hammer, but he casually turned a page in the book without looking up. "Why? Are you pregnant?"

"Very droll, John. No, we have to get married because the Sherpa guides don't like unmarried couples to have sex on Everest, particularly at the higher camps. They claim it displeases the mountain."

John looked askance at Sherlock. "Will they like two men having sex on the mountain whether we're married or not?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not like we'd be the first, and the Sherpa guides are themselves renowned for their liberal attitudes towards sex. But a certificate will make all the difference to them. Or at least, they think it will to Sagarmāthā, as they call Everest in their language. It is unmarried people having sex at Camp Two or higher that they believe truly upsets the mountain. To me it all appears quite arbitrary, but if we are legally joined, it should appease them no matter which camp we are at."

"So you think that even though I might not ever make it as high as Camp Two, we should be married anyway?"

"Precisely," beamed Sherlock, pleased that John had caught on so quickly.

"You know, I still don't hear a question in there anywhere," John said, setting down his book and looking expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock fixed John with his laser-like gaze, but John did not look away.

"You're really going to make me do this, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. I absolutely am."

"Oh very well…" Sherlock sighed dramatically, feigning resignation. Then he walked over, took both of John's hands in his, and pulled him to his feet. "John Watson, will you marry me?"

"God, yes," John said, throwing his arms around Sherlock's neck and hugging him tightly. "But we've only two weeks before we leave. Can we get everything done in time? We'll need rings and…" his voice trailed off as Sherlock produced a jeweler's box from his pocket and opened it. Two rings.

John's hands itched to examine the rings more closely but he did not want to be distracted from the down-to-earth details that Sherlock so often overlooked. "We need to apply to the Registry Office as soon as possible, because there's a waiting period…"

"Don't be an idiot; Mycroft has expedited everything already," Sherlock said, picking up a large manila envelope from the coffee table. First he pulled out a copy of the Registry Office notification. Then he showed John their new passports, driving licenses and credit cards for existing accounts, now all bearing new names.

John sorted through everything and his eyebrows shot up. "So I am going to be John Watson-Holmes and you are going to be Sherlock Watson-Holmes. Refresh my memory: when did we talk about this?"

Sherlock tensed up. "I-I thought that's what you'd want, that we should both have the same name," he said cautiously.

John grinned. "Just never thought I'd end up with a double-barrelled name is all." Sherlock sighed in relief. Although he had his reasons, he knew he had possibly overstepped his bounds quite a bit with this entire situation.

"Lestrade will give us new Living Will and Next of Kin forms to sign tomorrow. After the ceremony we'll go right to the bank to change the names on our accounts there. I know this is all a bit rushed but…"

"Yeah, you knew we were going to have to do this all along. Why did you wait until so late?"

Sherlock couldn't quite meet John's eyes, and suddenly John got it. "Sherlock, were you trying to rush me into this so I wouldn't have too much time to think about it? You didn't need to do that! You already knew I would say yes no matter when you asked me. In fact, I'm fairly certain I would have said yes the day we met."

"I did think about asking you the next day, but I was worried that twenty-four hours might be considered too soon to bring up marriage," Sherlock confessed.

John laughed. "We would be an old married couple of over four months by now if you had," he said. Then he took the ring box and removed one of the simple, silver-toned bands.

"White gold, eighteen karat, already sized and engraved," Sherlock said. John looked inside the silver circle and saw "JWH to SWH" and a date two days hence!

"Two days? We have to wait that long?" John asked, only somewhat tongue-in-cheek. He completely let go of any annoyance he might have felt about not being consulted — he had wanted to marry Sherlock and it was going to happen, and that was all that mattered now.

"Well, we still have a few things to do tomorrow to get ready," Sherlock said. "But if we want Lestrade to be at the ceremony, the day after tomorrow is the latest we can do it. And if we wait any longer, we won't have much time for a honeymoon, either."

John chuckled. "As far as I'm concerned, we've been on a honeymoon all along. And, Sherlock, thank you — I wouldn't have had a clue where to start with all this, and you got it all done so that I didn't have to even think about it. You are just amazing."

"I did have some help from Mycroft," Sherlock admitted reluctantly, because he hated to share John's praise with anyone else (but most especially with his brother).

**~~~/~~~**

Greg showed up the next morning for one last half-day of work. Sherlock used his soon-to-be married name to sign a new form giving him the authority to make medical decisions for Greg in case anything serious should happen to the expedition manager in Nepal, and Sherlock and John signed quite a few new forms for each other. A few more tasks completed, and Greg was out the door commenting, "See you two tomorrow morning. Sherlock, don't forget to the bring the rings!"

"As if I would," Sherlock sniffed. (He had already given them to John.)

That evening John ran out to pick up some spare razor blades and shaving cream for his wash kit. He was on his way back home when a sleek black car once again drew up beside him. The heavily-tinted window came down and Mycroft poked his head out.

"Please get in the car, John," he said, and it actually sounded like a request this time. "I wish to speak with you privately before the wedding."

John pretended to think about it for a bit. "Yeah, why not?" he agreed. "There are some things I want to say to you, too."

He climbed in and sat down facing Mycroft. The smell of well-maintained leather hit him in the face. "Nice car."

"Indeed," Mycroft said dryly. He pulled the door shut and signaled to the driver to get going.

"Well," John folded his arms across his chest, "it's your meeting."

"I wish to take this occasion to explain my behaviour the first time we met."

"I think you owe me more than just an explanation, Mycroft," John said a bit resentfully.

"But I feel I must first clear up a misunderstanding. You see, you are the last person I thought my brother would ever choose for himself. When he went out catting, as infrequent as it was, he never picked anyone remotely like you."

"Yeah, how is this different from our last meeting?" John asked with rising annoyance.

"Please hear me out, John. I have not finished. Gregory had told me that you and Sherlock seemed very serious very quickly, but I needed to see it for myself. As I am sure you have noticed, my brother has never quite understood emotional interactions, and I knew he was certain to be fragile when it came to his first real relationship. Gregory did tell me, and after I met you I concurred, that you were good for Sherlock. But it has since come to my attention that I said some things which perhaps I should not have."

John snorted. "You shouldn't have said any of it. Your brother is a grown man and you had no right to meddle."

"I fear that I have spent a lifetime 'meddling,' as you put it, and I cannot break the habit that easily. At this point, however, I can admit that you are the exact person _I_ would have chosen for Sherlock — someone loyal, steadfast and down to earth. But I could not afford sentiment back then. I gave you a very hard time to test you. And in doing so, I purposely said many harsh things.

"Then, once it became evident you were every bit as serious as Sherlock, I realised I had no wish for you to be hurt, either. I was completely sincere, though perhaps misguided, when I took it upon myself to warn you that Sherlock would eventually tire of you. I believed it at the time. I will admit that I never imagined that my brother would be capable of sustaining a meaningful relationship past the first bump in the road. Nevertheless, Sherlock tells me that my 'caring lark' comment had a deleterious effect upon you."

"Yes, because I made the mistake of assuming you knew what you were talking about."

Mycroft produced a wintry smile. "It appears that you are the exception to everything that has to do with my brother. And I am very pleased that this has turned out to be the case."

He hesitated, then went on, "On a personal note, one other thing I meant quite genuinely was that I do wish Sherlock would give up his commercial expedition business and climb for Queen and Country. He would be such an asset to the team." He sounded almost wistful, and John softened in spite of himself.

"You know, Mycroft, I could talk to Sherlock about climbing for the Alpine Club as long as your climb doesn't take place at the same time as the yearly BSCC expedition. Greg and I can run the office while he's gone — probably even more easily than while he's there."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, John," he said, "you shall have to accompany him, because Sherlock will not go without you."

At John's surprised look, Mycroft continued, "He would not be looking forward to this coming expedition if you had not taken to climbing as you did. He would be most distressed if he had to leave you behind. This, if I may mention, is diametrically opposed to the ease with which he was able to leave Victor behind when he set out on the Seven Summits attempt, and that, as I'm sure you are aware, took place over the span of seven months."

Suddenly any residual jealousy John may have felt about Victor evaporated completely!

"What about you and Greg, though? How do you feel about Greg being gone two months a year?" John was curious about Mycroft's point of view on this subject.

"Gregory and I have our own separate lives. I myself am unreachable quite a bit in my position as a, ah, minor official of the British government, and I would never expect Gregory to simply sit at home and wait for me."

Then Mycroft picked up a large rectangular box from the seat next to him and handed it across to John. "This is a wedding gift to you and Sherlock from Gregory and myself." John took it from him and was surprised to find that it was heavier than it looked. "Thank you, Mycroft. From both of us."

Mycroft nodded. "Once again, my heartfelt apologies for the things I said when we first met. I am beyond delighted to know that Sherlock has finally found someone who is solid ground to his quicksand. I assure you that Gregory and I will be at your wedding with bells on, metaphorically speaking."

John nodded. Greg was going to be Sherlock's best man, and he had assumed Mycroft would be there as well. "Thank you, by the way, for shortening the waiting period and expediting all those other matters for us."

"Ah, yes. Sherlock is under the impression that he twisted my arm to get me to do it, because he thought I owed him something for the way I treated you the first time we met. I would have done it all just as happily without the coercion, but don't tell him I said so. He is so proud of himself."

John laughed. "No promises about that, Mycroft, but I won't bring it up unless Sherlock does."

"I have always wished to have a reasonable brother. Welcome to the family, John."

By now the car had pulled up outside the door to 221B. Mycroft held out a hand for John to shake. "Until tomorrow, then."

**~~~/~~~**

"Obviously my brother kidnapped you again. You smell like the inside of his car," Sherlock greeted him.

"Sherlock, look! Mycroft and Greg got us a gift." John had carried their wedding present up the stairs, consumed with curiosity as to the contents.

"Open it, then," Sherlock said with a smile.

John cut the fastenings and removed the top. To his surprise, the box was filled with other boxes. He pulled out the largest one and opened it. Nestled inside was a suit. It was, in fact, an extremely nice suit. There was also a box with a shirt. A box containing a tie, a handkerchief, and socks. And in another, a pair of shoes and a belt. All in John's sizes. All matching or contrasting perfectly.

"This was very nice of them, but you know I already have a suit," John said, pleased but puzzled.

Sherlock somehow managed to keep a totally straight face. "This suit is probably more appropriate for a wedding than brown corduroy, John," he said blandly.

John stared at him suspiciously. "Wait a minute…Mycroft said this was for both of us. How is this a gift for you?" he asked.

"Try everything on and I shall show you," replied Sherlock with a slight smirk.

John put on a fashion show for his fiancé eagerly waiting stark-naked in the bed, but by the time he undressed and methodically hung up his new clothes so they would not wrinkle, Sherlock was feigning sleep...although the obvious tenting of the top sheet rather gave him away. And of course, when John slipped in next to him, Sherlock pounced enthusiastically. "By tomorrow at this time we shall be married," he said, wrapping his arms and legs around John like an octopus. "I wonder if married sex is different?"

"From what everyone tells me, it's better," John said. "Apparently there's something transformative about taking vows."

"Really? Well, it already seems to me that every time I think sex with you can't possibly get any better, it does. Allow me to demonstrate."

**~~~/~~~**

Mycroft, Greg, Mrs. Hudson and Mike Stamford attended the ceremony at the Registrar's Office (more like a paper-signing, Sherlock grumbled), but Harry did not come. When John called to invite her, she was too inebriated to take in what he was saying. Turned out the hoped-for reconciliation with Clara had not come off after all, which pushed Harry right back to the bottle. John felt bad for her, but he was not about to risk having her ruin the service with some kind of drunken outburst. So he did not call back to ask again.

As Sherlock had noted, there seemed to be an enormous amount of paperwork to plough through. This normally would have been taken care of well in advance, but since the Watson-Holmes ceremony had been mysteriously fast-tracked through the system by someone high up in the Registrar's Office (the officiating Registrar, at least, seemed extremely confused by the whole thing), they had to get that part out of the way first. Every time they signed a document and passed it across the desk to the puzzled official, he harrumphed, "Most irregular. This is most irregular." John had trouble keeping a straight face after third or fourth iteration. Sherlock carried on signing grimly, just wanting the entire ordeal to be over and done with.

But finally it was time for the actual vows. John and Sherlock stood before the Registrar, with Greg at Sherlock's side and Mike Stamford at John's. Mrs. Hudson remained seated, sniffling into a handkerchief. Mycroft sat next to her, looking exceedingly uncomfortable at her display of emotion and awkwardly patting her on the arm now and then.

The couple had decided to use the very simplest form of the civil partnership vows. They were both happy to keep the service as short as possible, because the sooner it was over, the sooner they'd be legally joined.

"Are you, John Hamish Watson, free lawfully to form a civil partnership with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I am."

"Are you, Sherlock Holmes, free lawfully to form a civil partnership with John Hamish Watson?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am. Can you not speed this up somewhat?"

Mrs. Hudson gasped, Mike bit back a laugh, Greg and Mycroft groaned as one and John said, "Sherlock, behave!" Sherlock looked unrepentant.

The Registrar threw the tall, dark-haired groom a reproachful glance, but turned to John and went on as if there had been no interruption. "Repeat after me: I, John Hamish Watson, take you, Sherlock Holmes, to be my civil partner under law. I give you this ring as a token of my love and a sign of the promises I make to you today."

John looked up at Sherlock with eyes that crinkled happily in the corners. "I, John Hamish Watson, take you, Sherlock Holmes, to be my civil partner under law." His voice was steady and deliberate. Mike passed the ring to John, who promptly took Sherlock's left hand and slipped the silver circle firmly onto his finger.

"I give you this ring as a token of my love and a sign of the promises I make to you today." The mandatory legalities out of the way, John smiled sunnily and added, "On belay for life, Sherlock."

Sherlock, who had not expected that last, froze in place. How was it that John, _just John_, had the ability to constantly take him by surprise?

The Registrar was speaking again. "Repeat after me: I, Sherlock Holmes, take you, John Hamish Watson, to be my civil partner under law. I give you this ring as a token of my love and a sign of the promises I make to you today."

Sherlock was so enthralled with John's vow that he almost forgot where he was, and why. Greg nudged him out of his reverie, and he burst out, "I, Sherlock Holmes, take you, John Hamish Watson, to be my civil partner under law." His voice sounded somewhat disbelieving that this was actually happening. Greg gave John's ring to Sherlock, and Sherlock placed it reverently on John's finger.

"I give you this ring as a token of my love and a sign of the promises I make to you today…Belay on indeed, John." Then he surged forward to kiss his husband before the registrar could even start the next words: "I pronounce you legally joined. Husbands, you may kiss."

Perhaps they had meant it to be a brief kiss, but it didn't end up that way. After a few moments Greg turned to Mycroft sitting in the seat next to Mrs. Hudson and said, "See what I've had to put up with for the past four and a half months?"

"You think you had a problem?" Mrs. Hudson piped up. "Try walking in on them having…"

"Yes, thank you for sharing, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft interrupted icily.

John and Sherlock had already broken apart, laughing at Mrs. Hudson's words. The men all smiled and shook hands then, and Mrs. Hudson cried and hugged everyone, even Mycroft.

"Well, Sherlock…John…I'm taking the rest of the day off, too," Greg said with a wink. "I'll be leaving for Nepal tomorrow, so I won't see you again until we're all on Everest together. John, don't forget to take those dossiers with the pictures of the clients, so you can recognise them when they land at the airport."

John snapped his fingers. "I get it now," he said. "It seemed to me that you had left a lot to do for the last minute, but it's really that you had to rush it all because Sherlock cut the time short by deciding we were going to get married!"

Greg smiled and clapped John on the back. **"**Well, thanks to you, everything got done in record time. The three of us make a great team as long as Sherlock stays out of the way." John and Greg snickered together while Sherlock pretended to be highly offended.

Mike came up to say goodbye. "I'll see you on Everest, too, Sherlock; John," he said. Then he shook his head. "Looks like I had a previously unknown talent as a matchmaker."

Mycroft, Greg, Mike and Mrs. Hudson drove off in a sleek black car, while John and Sherlock, carrying just one suitcase, beween them, got into a cab. They made a stop at the bank to change the names on their accounts, then the cabbie dropped them at the same posh hotel where they had celebrated the New Year. This time there was no indecision about what to do first. Sherlock put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door of their honeymoon suite, and they were in the bed in record time.

The newlyweds proved to each other's satisfaction that sex after marriage was indeed better, and once John came back to earth**,** he slid out of the bed to get a flannel to clean them both off. On the way back from the ensuite bathroom he noticed bits of his new clothes scattered around the floor mixed with Sherlock's. After cleaning Sherlock and himself off with the damp flannel, he gathered Sherlock's things as well as his own and carefully hung them up.

Sherlock thoughtfully eyed the suits now hanging side by side on hangers. "We must try suit sex next.**"**

"No, Sherlock! I'm not going to ruin my lovely new suit!"

"Two words, John…dry cleaning."

They were awake and alert by then, so they got up and actually looked around the honeymoon suite for the first time. In the sitting room, compliments of the hotel, there were large bunches of flowers in vases, a couple of boxes of chocolates, and an apparently empty ice bucket, which should have held a bottle of champagne. Sherlock walked up to the bucket and hesitated, puzzled, when he looked down and saw two bottles of Coca-Cola chilling in the ice.

"Here, Sherlock, allow me." John, who had come up behind him quietly, deftly popped the caps off with a bottle opener and handed his husband a bottle. Sherlock looked at the Coke bottle and then at John, and a grin spread over his face from ear to ear. "You arranged for this?"

"I did. A toast, Sherlock. To us."

"To us," Sherlock replied. "And to Everest."

Then simultaneously they said, "To us on Everest." They clinked bottles and drank.

And there was Sherlock, his head and neck bent gracefully backwards as he swallowed. Of course he wasn't dressed in a parka or wearing protective goggles now, but it was the same man in the same pose displayed in the advertising poster on the wall at 221B, to which John had been magnetically attracted when he entered the flat that fateful day. Who would have thought, John marveled, that his job interview would end up like this?

**EPILOGUE**

On the last day of their honeymoon, John awoke before Sherlock and slipped out of the wreckage of their bed. He quickly pulled on some clothes and went out onto the balcony, which offered him a panoramic view of London glistening in the bright morning sun. He could already feel the warmth and promise of spring in the air. Hooding his eyes with a hand against the dazzling sun, he drank in the sight of the city, wanting to memorise the scene to take with him to Nepal in less a week.

Sherlock woke up soon afterwards and went looking for his husband. He found him out on the balcony and stood in the open doorway in wonder. John loved him. John had married him. _John was still here_.

John heard Sherlock behind him, turned around and smiled joyfully. The March sun shone in his hair, creating a nimbus around his head. And suddenly Sherlock saw exactly how John would look shining in the sun on the slopes on Everest.

* * *

Mount Everest is known in Nepal as Sagarmāthā and in Tibet as Chomolungma.

From what I've read, it's true that the Sherpas don't like unmarried couples to have sex higher on the mountain, but I have to admit I don't have a clue how they would react to two men, married or not. However, it's certain that John and Sherlock would not be the first same-sex couple on the mountain.

**Author's Note**

I have always been interested in mountain-climbing disaster stories, and the terrible tragedy last April where 16 Sherpas were killed in an avalanche on the Khumbu Icefall suddenly made me think, "What if Sherlock were a mountaineer, and John were his expedition doctor?"

So this story was born. But here's the deal: this story is not the story I set out to write. The first chapter, explaining how John found out about the job, was meant to be a foreword. The next chapter was going to start with John and Sherlock actually on Everest and already a couple. Some of what is in this story was going to be told as flashbacks for that story. Then, if there appeared to be any interest, I would have gone back to write this story.

But then I thought maybe it would be better to write this first because it's happy and I wanted happy. And now it's done. But there will be happy one-shots. And there will be a sequel — the story I originally intended to write, where John and Sherlock are on Everest and already a couple. And it will be reasonably happy as well.

Follow me as an author if you want to know about one-shots as they post, or keep following this story for news about the sequel because I'll post an announcement about it here. Also, you can follow me on tumblr because I always mention it there when I post anything. But honestly, other than that, my tumblr dash is nothing special. Still...if you're interested...oldpinghai dot tumblr dot com — or just ask me a question oldpinghai dot tumblr dot com slash ask

My main sources for this story were:  
_Into Thin Air_, Jon Krakauer  
_High Crimes_, Michael Kodas  
_Scotland__'__s Mountain Ridges_, Dan Bailey  
_No Shortcuts to the Top_, Ed Viesturs with David Roberts  
Websites too numerous to list


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